GIFT   OF 


EZEKIEL  LEAVITT. 


SONGS  OF 
GRIEF  AND  GLADNESS 

and 
"DEBORAH" 


BY 


EZEKIEL     LEAVITT. 


WITH      AN      APPRECIATION      OF      LEAVITT 
BY 

GOTTHARD  DEUTSCH,  Ph.  D., 

Professor  of  Jewish  History  and  Literature  in  Hebrew  Union  College. 

AND 

A  Foreword  by  the  Translator, 
MISS    ALICE    STONE    BLACKWELL. 


COPYRIGHT  DEC.  5th,    1907 
By    EZEKIEL    LEAVITT. 


PRESS  OF  THE  MODERN  VIEW 
SAINT  Louis 


AN  APPRECIATION   OF  LEAVITT. 

BY  PROF.  GOTTHARD  DEUTSCH. 

More  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  Issachar  Falkensohn  Behr,  a 
Russian  Jew,  who  studied  medicine  in  Germany,  published  a  volume 
of  poems  under  the  title  of  "Poems  of  a  Polish  Jew."  No  less  a  man 
than  the  great  Goethe  himself  honored  this  work  with  a  review,  in 
which  he  says  that  the  man  who  calls  himself  on  the  title  page  of 
his  work  a  Polish  Jew  is  guilty  of  a  pretense.  He  claims  by  this 
phrase,  that  his  poetry  is  something  original,  and  when,  like  Behr, 
he  merely  gives  weak  imitations  of  the  customary  run  of  odes  to  the 
spring,  and  when  he  sings,  like  every  other  mediocre  genius,  of  the 
rosebuds  and  the  nightingale,  he  has  no  right  to  give  his  poetry  a 
specific  name. 

The  condemnation  was  quite  justified  one  hundred  years  ago  and 
remained  so  for  a  long  time.  When  Jews,  who  were  imbued  with 
some  slight  secular  knowledge,  tried  their  hand  at  literature,  it  took 
a  long  time  before  they  emancipated  themselves.  It  may  have  been 
about  fifty  years  ago  that  Abraham  Mapu  began  to  write  some  novels 
in  the  Hebrew  language.  He  tried  to  give  expression  to  the  longings 
and  the  ideals  of  the  Jewish  soul.  At  first  he  transferred  his  poetry 
to  Biblical  times,  and  naturally  was  affected.  Later  on  he  began  to 
place  his  stories  in  a  more  modern  environment.  He  spoke  of  the 
battle  of  the  new  ideals,  which  stood  for  refinement  of  life,  breadth 
of  culture  and  secular  education,  against  religious  obscurantism, 
against  the  uncouthness  of  the  Ghetto  and  the  evils  resulting  from 
bigotry.  Independently  there  arose  a  Jewish  literature  in  the  German 


48302 


00. 


language,  which  pathetically  describes  the  transition  from  the  Ghetto 
life  to  modern  culture.  It  showed  that  a  phase  of  life  which  was 
vanishing,  while  it  had  to  go,  possessed  some  pathetic  features,  which 
deserved  our  love  and  admiration.  Nowhere,  however,  did  this 
pathos  appear  more  strongly  than  in  the  literature  of  the  Russian 
Jew.  They  formed  large  communities,  were  more  distinctly  separate 
from  their  environment  by  their  language  and  mode  of  life,  and 
finally  suffered  more  severely  from  the  prejudices  of  the  world  around 
them. 

The  world's  literature  will  no  doubt  at  some  time  be  enriched  by 
this  chapter  containing  the  achievements  of  the  Russian  Jews  in  their 
Hebrew,  Russian  and  Yiddish  writings,  and  amongst  the  names  which 
represent  this  activity  stands  out,  as  one  of  the  best,  the  name  of 
Ezekiel  Leavitt. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  literature  of  the  whole  world  contains 
one  genius  who  was  able  to  write  poetry  in  two  languages.  Even  a 
prose  writer  in  two  languages,  who  has  acquired  any  standing  in  the 
literature  of  both  nations,  is  exceedingly  rare.  It  would  seem,  how- 
ever, that  the  Russian  Jew  is  unique  in  this  respect.  Unable  to  judge 
the  Russian,  I  must  say  that  both  the  Hebrew  and  the  Yiddish  works 
of  Ezekiel  Leavitt  possess  great  poetic  merit.  His  muse  is  distinctly 
Jewish,  he  gives  expression  to  the  griefs  and  to  the  pathos  of  the 
Jewish  soul,  produced  by  the  unparalleled  sufferings  of  his  people. 
He  sings  of  Israel's  hope,  and  he  wails  over  Israel's  woes.  He  presents 
to  us  the  touching  conflict  between  the  simplicity  of  the  old,  who  are 
happy  in  the  midst  of  their  afflictions,  and  the  impatience  of  the 
young,  who  yearn  for  a  life  of  freedom,  comfort  and  unhampered 
intellectual  progress.  I  am  sure  that  all  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and 
all  admirers  of  true  poetry  and  of  literary  art  will  wish  Mr.  Leavitt 
success  in  his  literary  activities. 

Leavitt  has  amply  experienced  the  difficulty  of  "arriving,"  which 
all  men  of  genius  have  to  combat  with.  He  now  has  already  a  com- 
munity of  appreciative  readers,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  most  of  the 
languages  in  which  he  writes  have  a  limited  public  in  the  land  where 
he  lives.  His  poetical  works  will  now  appear  in  English,  and  thus 
conquer  for  themselves  a  larger  public  and  win  that  recognition  which 
they  richly  deserve. 

—  2  — 


A  FOREWORD  BY  THE  TRANSLATOR. 
ALICE  STONE  BLACKWELL. 


It  has  as  yet  been  my  privilege  to  read  only  a  part  of  this 
author's  poetical  works;  but  these  display  some  characteristics  so 
marked  that  the  reader  feels  sure  they  must  reappear  in  all  the  poet's 
other  writings. 

i.)  These  poems  are  idealistic,  and  often  strike  a  high  and  noble 
note,  as  in  "My  Creed." 

2.)  The  author's  spirit  is  intensely  nationalistic.  He  is  not  only 
an  idealist,  but  distinctly  and  fervently  a  Hebrew  idealist.  Wherever 
his  body  may  be,  his  soul  dwells  in  Zion.  Over  and  over  again,  in 
different  forms  occurs  the  exhortation  with  which  he  closes  "A  Zion- 
ist Marseillaise."  , 

The  invincible  passion  with  which  the  poet  clings  to  this  idea  is 
very  well  expressed  in  his  lines,  "They  Tell  Me.'' 

3.)  The  poems  are  profoundly  mournful,  as  is  to  be  expected 
of  songs  written  under  the  shadow  of  the  greatest  tragedy  of  modern 
times — the  Jewish  persecutions  in  Russia.  Many  of  them  breathe  the 
discouragement  of  an  ardent  spirit  that  started  out  with  sanguine 
hopes  of  the  speedy  triumph  of  right  and  freedom  throughout  the 
world,  only  to  become  convinced  by  sad  experience  that  the  complete 
victory  is  still  far  in  the  future. 

4.)  The  author  is  deeply  imbued  with  the  history  of  his  race, 
a  history  so  interesting  and  so  wonderful  that  it  is  impossible  for  any 
open-minded  person  to  read  it  without  feeling  his  heart  swell  with 
pride  over  the  achievements  of  the  old  Jewish  heroes  and  heroines. 
This  feeling  is  of  course  tenfold  stronger  in  those  who  share  the  same 
ancient  and  heroic  blood.  Mr.  Leavitt's  poetical  gift  attains  some  of 
its  highest  flights  in  descanting  upon  the  old  glories  of  Israel,  as  in 
his  remarkable  poem  "To  My  Nation." 

5.)  The  poet  is  indefatigable  in  urging  his  people  to  live  up  to 
their  record. 

6.)  Mr.  Leavitt  has  good  ability  to  impress  a  moral  by  means 
of  a  fable  or  parable,  as  is  shown,  for  instance,  in  his  humorous 
poem  "The  Pig." 

—  3  — 


7.)  The  poems  are  characterised  by  fiery  indignation  against 
wrong,  often  enforced  with  striking  similes  and  illustrations,  as  in 
"The  False  Prophets."  Sometimes  as  in  "The  Poet  to  the  Public," 
there  is  a  note  of  what  sounds  like  arrogance,  but  is  perhaps  only 
the  legitimate  self-assertion  of  the  idealist  against  surrounding  ma- 
terialism, or  the  exaltation  by  the  poet  of  his  art  in  the  face  of  coarse 
and  stupid  depreciation  of  the  divine  mission  of  poetry.  Sometimes 
a  beautiful  bit  of  description  of  natural  scenery  occurs  in  the  midst 
of  a  philosophical  poem,  as,  for  instance,  in  his  poem  "The  Prophet." 

It  is  true  of  Mr.  Leavitt,  as  of  all  other  poets,  of  all  nationali- 
ties, that  the  most  valuable  among  his  poems  are  those  which  inspire 
courage  and  predict  the  inevitable  triumph  of  right.  A  good  example 
is  "The  Streamlet." 


—4— 


THE  POET  TO  THE  PUBLIC. 


My  house  is  heaven,  the  angels  are  my  friends; 

My  comrades — flowers,  and  birds  that  sweetly  call. 
Loud-sounding  praises  do  not  make  me  glad, 

The  critic's  censure  grieves  me  not  at  all. 

Oh,  I  have  studied  you,  my  brethren  dear ! 

I  know  you,  pigmies,  know  you  through  and  through ! 
You  can  not  comprehend  or  feel  my  songs, 

Writ  with  a  pen  that  tears  and  blood  bedew. 

You  can  not  understand.     Life's  daily  prose 

Has  blunted  all  your  feelings  long  ago. 
I  only  wonder  at  your  impudence 

In  mocking  poetry:     "We  want  it  so!" 

Trust  me,  you  will  not  make  the  poet  fear, 

Nor  choke  his  voice  divine,  his  song  sublime. 

His  duty  is  to  sing  and  wake  men's  hearts, 
And  he  will  do  it  always,  every  time. 

Yea,  the  true  poet  does  not  ask  for  thanks. 

His  just  reward,  let  Fortune  smile  or  frown, 
Lies  in  his  work;  he  feels  in  his  sick  heart 

That  he  is  of  humanity  the  crown. 

To  the  true  poet  all  must  honor  give ; 

His  artist  glance  you  should  not  render  sad. 
He  is  your  father,  brother,  and  your  judge. 

Your  comrade  in  good  fortune  and  in  bad! 


—5— 


A  LION'S  SPIRIT. 

Within  me,   even  from  my  youth, 

A  lion's  spirit  dwells. 
High  do  I  rise;  toward  mighty  deeds 

My  heart  aspires  and  swells. 

No  power  as  master  do  I  own, 

I  do  not  bow  the  head, 
I  creep  before  no  potentate, 

Nor  fear  his  terror  dread. 

A  lion's  soul  within  me  dwells; 

I  scorn  small  things,  mean  wiles; 
I  scoff  at  all  the  creatures  base 

Who  walk  with  cringing  smiles; 

Who  kiss  each  proud  commander's  hand, 

And  fawning,  day  by  day, 
Before  each  wretched  upstart  bow, 

And  his  commands  obey. 

God  gave  me  thirst  for  great  ideals, 
And,  from  my  earliest  breath, 

Before  a  dog's  life,  I  with  joy 
Would  choose  a  lion's  death. 


MY  CREED. 

0  Mother  Nature,  gifts  deserving  scorn 

I  do  not  need;  for  other  gifts  I  yearn— 
Love's  changeless  gifts.     To  suffer  I  am  fain; 

Gold  tempts  me  not;  its  glittering  lure  I  spurn, 

1  would  not  be  a  base,  unworthy  slave; 

A  flatterer's  cringing  life  I  do  not  prize. 
The  soulless  world  will  not  receive  my  words, 
But  happy  he  for  his  ideals  who  dies! 

— 6_ 


What  need  have  I  of  notice,  of  men's  praise? 

My  sorrow  is  a  stranger  to  them  all. 
To  fools  my  sufferings  seem  ridiculous; 

A  thing  of  naught  my  trouble  they  would  call. 

They  laugh ;  they  do  not  wish  to  comprehend ; 

Yet  enmity  has  in  my  breast  no  part. 
Lovers  of  mockery,  passion's  slaves !  for  you 

Only  a  sorrowing  scorn  dwells  in  my  heart. 


THEY  TELL  ME. 


They  tell  me,  "Give  thy  nation  up, 
The  ancient  graves  resign ! 

Give  us  thy  soul — then  plenty,  wealth, 
And  greatness  shall  be  thine." 


They  tell  me:     "Think  not  to  rebuild 
The  City,  proud  and  tall, 

Of  whose  old  splendor  there  is  left 
Only  a  crumbling  wall. 

"Dream  not  thy  nation  to  arouse 

Out  of  its  slumber  deep. 
Behold,  it  has  so  many  years 

Lain  in  a  marmot's  sleep!'' 

False  prophets,  hush  !     Fie,  charlatans ! 

I  swerve  not  from  the  goal. 
I  will  not  give  my  honor  up, 

I  will  not  sell  my  soul. 


The  path  my  fathers  trod  through  life 
I  follow,  straight  and  clear; 

Should  death  demand  me,  I  will  mount 
The  scaffold  without  fear. 

My  God,  my  race,  I  will  not  change 

For  gold  or  jewels'  fires. 
More  than  a  stranger's  treasure-house, 

A  grave  among  my  sires! 


TO  THE  POET. 

O  poet,  never  bow  thy  head  and  yield 

Unto  the  foolish  and  indifferent  throng, 

And  never  to  the  men  of  power  and  place 

Sell  thy  clear-sounding  and  impartial  song! 

Wage  war  on  wickedness  with  all  thy  might; 

Wake  love  within  men's  hearts — a  noble  task ; 
And  strive  to  dust  and  ashes  to  reduce 

Falsehood  that  hides  its  face  behind  a  mask! 

Sow  kindness  and  sow  knowledge  everywhere ; 

WTith  courage  walk  the  rugged  path  and  hard ; 
For  the  unfortunate,  compassion  wake, 

And  never  from  the  crowd  expect  reward ! 


THE  POET. 

My  pen  has  made  me  many  foes,  indeed, 
And   for  my  writings  I  was  laid  to  bleed 

On  Russia's  altar,  sacrificed  in  youth. 
Yet  the  truth  only  shall  I  write  alway; 
I  in  the  camp  of  falsehood  will  not  stay : 

Nothing  is  dear  to  me  except  the  truth. 

—8— 


Honor  and  wealth  I  do  not  ask  of  life; 
One  goal  alone  I  aim  for  in  the  strife — • 

To  bring  more  light  into  a  darksome  place. 
The  rich  I  ne'er  shall  flatter  with  my  pen, 
And  at  the  purchased  souls  of  venal  men 

I  shall  laugh  always,  boldly,  to  their  face. 

Like  to  the  prophet  must  the  poet  be, 
A  judge  of  strict  and  stern  integrity. 

Ridiculous  and  wretched  he  must  prove 
The  men  whose  consciences  are  dead — who  spurn 
Of  freedom  and  equality  to  learn. 

The  poet  must  be  like  to  God  above ! 


BE  SILENT,  POET. 

Poet,  be  mute!     There  is  no  need  of  songs. 

Be  hushed,  as  silence  now  the  world  doth  fill. 
Within  the  shade  by  reddening  cherries  cast 

Sits  one  who,  like  to  thee,  is  waking  still. 

It  is  the  bard  of  love,  the  nightingale; 

O'er  the  soft  rose  he  trills,  within  the  glen. 
Night  has  descended  with  its  dreamy  hush. 

Poet,  be  silent!     In  the  hearts  of  men 

Seek  thou  no  welcome  for  thyself;  alas! 

No  sympathy  among  them  thou  wilt  find. 
They  cannot  understand  the  poet's  dreams ; 

Thou  all  alone  shall  leave  the  world  behind. 

Thou,  by  the  crowd  misunderstood,  shall  go, 

One  among  all,  a  stranger  to  the  rest, 
With  all  thy  wondrous  dreams  within  thy  brain, 
And  with  thy  loving  heart  within  thy  breast. 

—9— 


They  laugh  at  thee.     But  when  the  time  is  come 

Thou  wilt  begin  to  sing  at  eventide, 
And  in  a  tranquil  wave,  all  full  of  light, 

Songs  shall  gush  forth  and  flow.     Then,  circling  wide, 

And  trilling,  over  thee  shall  rise  and  soar 

Thy  nightingale,   love's   singer,   from   the  glade. 

Like  thee,  the  crowd  can  comprehend  him  not — 
One  lonely  poet  in  the  branches'  shade. 


MY  SONG  IS  POISONED! 

(  "All  My  Songs  Are  Poisoned."— Heine.) 

'Twas  in  the  Russian  land,  where  they  dig  graves 
For  high  ideals,  and  where  the  fist  is  law ; 

Where  tyrants  rule,  whose  kindness  is  like  dew, 

Their  righteousness  like  webs  which  spiders  draw; 

Russia,  where  dark  fanaticism  reigns, 

Land  of  oppression,  blood-stained,  filled  with  groans ; 
Russia,  whose  soul  is  but  the  penny-piece, 

Whose  Emperor  grinds  fine  the  people's  bones ; 

Russia,  whose  iron-clad  heaven  and  brass-bound  earth 

Are  fortified  from  every  ray  of  light; 
The  cruel  land,  whose  noblest  sons  are  chained 

And  locked  within  grim  prisons  dark  as  night; 

'Twas  in  the  Russian  land,  alas !  dear  friend, 
That  I  was  born,  and  knew  deep  suffering; 

There  passed  my  youth,  there  vanished  my  life's  spring? 
There  I  grew  gray,  not  seeing  one  good  thing. 


'Twas  there  my  grandmother  my  cradle  rocked, 
Wept  o'er  me,  sang  a  song  of  woe  profound, 

Breathing  her  grief,  so  sad  that  in  the  wall 

E'en  the  stones  shook  and  trembled  at  the  sound. 

There  on  her  withered  cheeks  I  oft  saw  tears — 

Cheeks  wrinkled  ere  the  time  by  pain  and  care; 

And  in  the  hush  of  night  I  heard  her  sighs — 

Telling  that  she,  poor  woman,  scarce  could  bear 

The  burden  that  was  laid  on  her  by  Fate — 

Hard,  bitter  Fate,  which  at  the  poor  doth  laugh—- 
Which crushes  and  breaks  down  the  wretched  soul 
Till  she  destroys  it,  as  the  fire  burns  chaff. 

My  mother's  sighs  and  all  her  bitter  tears, 

Shed  scalding  hot,  and  seething  like  a  fire, 

Poisoned  my  song,  e'en  in  my  tender  youth ; 
And  so  my  song  is  filled  with  poison  dire! 


OH,  IF! 

Once  I  chanced  to  read  an  ancient  legend, 
Such  as  old  traditions  to  us  bring. 

Underneath  the  sky  of  far-off  Thracia, 

Where  are  many  harbingers  of  spring — 

Violets  in  plenty,  breathing  fragrance, 
And  a  multitude  of  purple  flowers, 

Golden  fields  and  pastures  in  abundance, 

Shady  gardens  with  their  cooling  bowers ; 

Where  the  sky  is  azure  and  transparent 
As  the  tears  of  innocence  may  be; 

Where,  beneath  the  sun's  red  rays  illumined, 
Meads  are  decked  with  verdure  fair  to  see; 

—  ii — 


Where,  in  a  wide  ribbon  passing  onward, 

Ranks  of  desert  steppes  the  traveler  views — 

In  a  tent  with  garlands  wreathed  and  woven, 
Orpheus  dwelt,  the  favorite  of  the  Muse. 

Full  of  inspiration  was  this  singer, 

Marvelous  his  songs,  that  floated  wide. 

By  the  magic  of  his  wondrous  music 
Many  he  attracted  to  his   side. 

When  he  sings,  all  other  things  are  silent, 
As  if  all  the  world  beside  were  dead — 

As  if  all  the  birds  from  heaven  had  vanished, 
All  the  songsters  of  the  wood  were  fled. 

Birds  and  rocks  and  billows  of  the  ocean 
All  gave  ear,  in  silent,  mute  delight, 

To  the  sweet  outpourings  of  his  spirit, 

And  his  lyre's  clear  tunes  of  sacred  might. 

To  his  tent  ferocious  beasts  came  also, 

Pushing  through  their  heads,  in  tamest  guise ; 

They  would  lick  his  footsteps,  dumbly,  gently, 
With  a  fire  unearthly  in  their  eyes. 

Oh,  if  but  that  lyre  of  wondrous  sweetness 
Of  the  singer  Orpheus  I  possessed, 

I  would  wander  then  the  wide  world  over, 

And  would  sing  my  songs  from  east  to  west. 

With  the  lyre's  rich  notes  of  magic  sweetness 
I  would  then  begin  the  beasts  to  tame, 

And  with  words  most  burning  and  most  potent 
All  men's  hearts  I  then  would  set  aflame. 

— 12 — 


MY  POOR  JEW ! 

My  miserable  brother,  my  poor  Jew, 

How  sad  for  aye  thy  singing  in  the  night! 

Thou  to  thy  fate  art  nothing  but  a  slave ; 

Where'er  thou  turn'st,  thou  findest  not  thy  right. 

Thou  art  a  martyr,  thou  hast  suffered  long 

From  men,  from  beasts ;  each  snake  with  poison  dart 

Smites  thee;  for  what,  my  brother,  for  what  crime? 
Because  thou  weak  and  very  patient  art! 

Because  thou  lettest  burdens  break  thy  neck, 
And  bearest  silently  thy  heavy  chains ; 

Because  thou  bowest  down  to  kiss  the  rod 

That  flays  thee,  and  is  reddened  from  thy  veins. 

Oh,  my  poor  nation,  it  is  time  to  wake, 

To  live  with  wisdom,  not  absorbed  by  pelf. 

'Tis  time  for  thee  to  comprehend  thy  state, — 
Look  not  for  miracles,  but  work  thyself ! 


HEBREW  CRADLE  SONG. 

Night  has  on  the  earth  descended, 
All  around  is  silence  deep. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  I  am  with  thee; 
Sleep  a  calm  and  peaceful  sleep ! 

I  no  lullabies  shall  sing  thee; 

Songs  are  at  an  end  tonight. 
Sleep  in  peace,  oh,  sleep  on  sweetly, 

Long  as  sleep  thou  canst,  my  light ! 

—13— 


In  our  native  fields  aforetime 

Wondrous  songs  we  used  to  sing, 

Improvising  them  in  gar'dens 

Turning  green  with  early  spring, 

Where  grew  daffodils  and  myrtles, 

Stately   palms   upreared  their   height, 

Cypress  trees  spread  wide  their  branches, 
Splendid  roses  blossomed  bright. 

But  those  notes  are  hushed  and  silenced; 

Ruined  now  our  Zion  lies ; 
Mourning  sounds  instead  of  singing; 

Yea,  for  songs  we  hear  but  sighs. 

All  thou  needs  must  know,  my  darling, 
Of  thy  nation's  piteous  plight, 

Thou  wilt  learn,  and  weep  for  sorrow 
As  thy  mother  weeps  tonight. 

But  why  now  in  vain  disturb  thee? 

Let  thy  tranquil  slumber  last 
Until  over  thee,  my  dearest, 

The  dark  day  of  rain  hath  passed! 

To  the  school,  my  son,  I'll  lead  thee 
By  the  hand:  thou  there  shalt  learn 

All  our  Bible  and  our  knowledge. 

Wondrous  pearls  thou  wilt  discern — 

Pearls  of  wisdom  in  our  Talmud, 
Gems  our  sages'  lore  affords; 

Thou  shalt  taste  of  prayer's  first  sweetness 
And  the  charm  of  God's  great  words. 

Ne'er  forget  thou  art  a  Hebrew! 

Little  son,  remember  well, 
Even  to  thy  grave,  the  stories 

That  thy  mother  used  to  tell! 

—14— 


MY  LOSS. 

My  trust  in  human  beings  I  have  lost; 

Selfish  are  most  of  them,  and  insincere; 
More  than  enough  of  promises  they  make, 

But  when  to  action  called — they  disappear. 

My  youthful  strength  and  vigor   I  have  lost; 

I  to  the  world  have  given  them  away. 
Pain  without  end,  and  countless  woes  of  Job, 

Are  what  the  world  has  given  me  in  pay. 

The  fire  that  God  had  kindled  in  my  heart 

I've  lost  in  my  dark  life-path    among  men. 

My  hopes  have  perished,  all  my  dearest  hopes; 
Ah,  shall  I  ever  find  them  once  again? 


TOGETHER. 

In  life  thou  hast  already  suffered  much, 

Though  thou  art  yet  but  young  in  years  today; 

And,  striving  always,  thou  dost  find  thyself 
Forever  from  thy  goal  more  far  away. 

Thou  art  still  young,  and  yet  thy  heart  is  old 
Already,  aged  by  suffering,  pain  and  care. 

The  world  like  a  dead  figure  seems  to  thee, 
That  has  no  future,  no  tomorrow  fair. 

Broken  thy  loving  heart  has  been  by  time, 

As  tender  blossoms  by  the  rough  winds'  strife. 

Oh,  vast  and  infinite  the  grief  and  pain, 

That  thou  hast  suffered  at  the  hands  of  life! 

—15— 


My  child,  my  loving,  true  and  suffering  child, 
My  life  is  all  made  up  of  sorrowing  fears; 

Like  drifting  smoke  the  wind  has  borne  away 

The  sweet,  rich  dreams  of  my  more  youthful  years, 

Which  the  deceiver,  Hope,  had  woven  for  me, 

Of  friendship,  love  and  peace.     To  win  my  end 

Far  more  than  thou  already  have  I  striven; 

With  what  result  ?    An  empty  dream !    Dear  friend, 

I  am  a  broken  vessel !     Comfortless 

My  morrow  as  today  and  yesterday. 
My  life  is  worse  than  death ;  and  all  my  hours 

In  sighing  and  complaining  pass  away. 

No  ray  of  consolation  can  I  see ; 

My  brightest  day,  alas !  is  dark  as  night, 
And  my  sad  soul  is  sick  and  suffering 

As  if  it  lay  beneath  a  poison  blight. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  my  love,  my   faithful   friend ! 

Abandon  not  the  poet  far  away! 
Perhaps  together  we  may  have  the  power 

To  hope  with  courage  for  a  better  day! 

I  hope  that  thou  wilt  wake  my  strength  anew, 
And  still  refresh  it,  in  the  years  to  be — 

That  thou  wilt  give  to  me  a  glorious  May, 

And  I  more  songs  and  new  shall  sing  for  thee, 

Of  love,  of  hope;  and  suffering  and  grief 

No  more  shall  make  our  joy  and  gladness  pale. 

Dear,  only  give  to  me  thy  hand  and  heart; 
Together  we  will  struggle,  win  or  fail. 

—  1 6— 


I  LOVE  THEE. 

I  love  thee  as  a  rose  loves 

The  dawn's  first  ray  serene; 

I  love  thee  as  the  birds  love 
The  shadowy  forest  green; 

Or  as  the  snow-white  lily 
Loveth  the  whisper  low 

And  tender  of  the  zephyr — 
I  love  thee  even  so. 

My  young  friend,  my  May-lily, 
I  love  thy  fair  eyes'  light 

As  a  girl  loves  the  lustre 

Shed  from  the  diamond  bright! 


ROMANCE. 

"Oh,  I  shall  love  thee,  dear,  with  constancy! 

I  swear  that  I  will  ever  faithful  be!" 
This  didst  thou  promise,  darling,  and  my  heart, 

Which  time  had  broken,  beat  again — breathed  free. 

To  me  the  world  became  a  paradise 

Where  only  roses  bloom,  and  all  is  well. 

I  spent  whole  hours  in  rapture  and  delight; 

Lost  courage  came  again  my  heart  to  swell. 

I  found  again  my  faith  in  deity; 

I  better  knew  its  value  and  its  worth; 
For  men  are  looking  for  the  Lord  on  high, 

And  I  had  found  my  deity  on  earth. 


—17- 


Thou,  darling,  wast  my  deity,  my  soul, 

My  wealth,  my  Muse,  my  pride  and  happiness; 

Thou  wast  the  consolation  of  my  life; 

Thy  gentle  glance  had  power  my  heart  to  bless. 

But  when  thou  knew'st  I  was  a  poet,  dear, 

And  Rothschild's  wealth  than  mine  was  slightly  more, 
Then  thou  didst  soon  recover  from  thy  love, 

And  thou  didst  close  against  me  thy  heart's  door. 

I  a  discarded  amulet  became; 

Thou  charmest  now  a  richer  man  than  I. 
Gold  is  more  precious  to  thee  than  my  Muse, 

And  thou  hast  bidden  her  thy  last  good-bye. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

An  orphan  I  grew  up — no  fondling  sweet 

Knew  I ;  no  kisses,  no  embraces  dear. 
Far  from  my  country,  only  other's  tales 

Always  and  everywhere  I  used  to  hear. 

Beloved  friend,  above  my  childish  crib 

No  mother,  smiling,  sang  me  loving  rhymes. 

The  cold  steppes  served  me  often  for  a  bed, 
And  I  to  suffer  grief  began  betimes. 

Without  caresses  tender  passed  my  youth, 

Without  sweet  words,  soft  laughter,  mirthful  strains, 
'Neath  ceaseless  thunder  of  harsh  curses  wild, 

And  'rieath  the  clang  of  heavy,  crushing  chains, 

And  under  threats  loud  shouted,  fierce  and  stern, 
Forgotten,  I  at  night  would  fall  asleep; 

And  my  oppressor  with  the  morning's  light 

Would  meet  me  with  new  malice  dark  and  deep, 

-18- 


And  on  me  long  with  cold  derision  gaze. 

With  fear  I  shuddered  at  his  aspect  black. 
"Barentless  pilgrim,   say,   whence  comest  thou?" 

And,  "From  the  Ghetto,"  I  would  whisper  back. 

"The   Ghetto  ?     Leave   us   quickly !     There   return ; 

Live  there  and  die  there !"     Thus  his  rough  words  flowed. 
And,  taking  up  my  staff  and  shouting  harsh, 

I  went  again  to  wander  on  the  road. 

I  wandered  on,  and  burning  songs  of  woe, 

A  timid  outcast,  I  sang  o'er  and  o'er. 
My  heart  would  languish — but  a  ray  of  hope 

Soothed  it  and  warmed  it  softly,  evermore. 

I  prayed  in  faith,  in  faith  profound  and  deep; 

Always  I  hoped,  how  sharp  so'er  my  pain. 
?Neath  a  strange  sky  exhausted  oft  I  grew, 

And  oft  I  fell,  but  always  rose  again. 

And  still  from  year  to  year  I  wait — I  wait, 

And  drain  the  bitter  cup  of  woe  and  wrong. 

'Tis  in  the  people's  name  these  pains  I  bear, 
'Tis  for  the  people  that  I  sing  my  song! 


WHAT  SHALL  I  SING? 

What  shall  I  sing,  my  friend?     E'en  now,  within  my  Muse's  lips, 
There  waits,  prepared  and  guarded  and  hidden,  my  lament — 

An  ancient  song  of  mourning  that  I  sang  long  years  ago. 
It  has  not  ceased;  and  ever  from  the  treasury  unspent 

Of  my  own  tears,  increasing  still,  I  draw  it  day  by  day; 

Over  the  loss  of  all  my  hopes,  foretelling  lofty  things, — 
Over  the  loss  of  all  my  dreams,  that  promised  balm  for  grief, — 

The  loss  of  youth,  and  those  bright  days  to  which  youth's  halo 
clings. 

—  19— 


I  shall  not  sing,  my  colleague!     I  am  a  mourner  now, 

And  for  my  youthful  hopes  I  have  already  dug  a  tomb. 

My  good  dreams  all  have  passed  away — alas,  they  are  no  more! 

My  heart  is  emptied  out,  and  naught  dwells  in  that  vacant  room. 

New  pains  lift  up  their  eyes  to  me,  and  o'er  my  woe  I  weep, 
And  o'er  the  ruin  a  dark  fate  has  on  my  nation  sent. 

What  shall  I  sing,  my  friend?  Alas,  my  sad  and  bitter  life 
Has  taught  me  only  how  to  weep  and  openly  lament. 

Within  the  Ghetto  I  was  born,  within  a  corner  dark. 

Naught  but  laments  and  mourning  songs  I  heard  in  that  sad  place. 
Since  from  my  mother's  womb  I  came,  down  to  the  present  day, 

Lo,  Life  has  shown  me  nothing  but  a  stern  and  angry  face. 

Within  the  happy,  joyous  world  I  like  a  mourner  dwell. 

My  heart  is  young,  and  yet,  alas,  my  strength  has  passed  away. 
My  friend,   from  my  youth  upward  I  have  striven  still  for  light, 

Have  lifted  my  soul  up  toward  it  forever,  night  and  day. 

To  study  I  devoted  my  time  of  early  youth, 

My  spirit  and  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  this  I  gave. 

For  brotherhood  and  friendship  I  have  striven  all  my  days, 

And  to  embrace  the  whole  broad  earth  my  eager  heart  did  crave. 

Love — so  I  thought — will  surely  root  out  haughtiness  and  pride, 
And  every  downcast  spirit  then  will  find  its  longed-for  rest. 

I  thought  that  blissful  time  was  near  when  crime  and  wrong  shall 

cease, 
And  we  shall  hear  no  more  the  cry  for  help  of  the  oppressed. 

Then  from  the  heads  of  monarchs  the  crown  shall  be  removed, 
And  parted  justly  among  those  whom  fortune  had  forgot. 

'Twas  thus  I  thought;  and  so  in  hope  I  lifted  up  my  voice 

And  sang  my  songs — the  songs  of  joy  increased  and  faltered  not. 

Now  'mid  the  ruins  of  my  past  I  stand  and  weep  my  dead — 
My  old-time  hopes. — Alone  am  I,  and  hushed  is  now  my  lute. 

My  song's  voice  on  a  sudden  has  failed,  and  ceased  to  sound; 
My  inspiration  all  has  fled,  my  Muse  is  still  and  mute. 

— 20 — 


ELEGY. 

The  night  is  silent,  like  a  graveyard  hushed; 

The  night  is  black  and  darksome,  like  a  tomb. 
Exiled,  alas !  far  distant  from  my  home, 

I  sit  alone  and  careworn  in  my  room. 

And  thoughts,  all  dark  and  mournful  like  my  fate, 

Cloud  over  my  sick  heart,  a  gloomy  train. 
Endless  and  infinite  my  sorrows  are; 
A  fathomless  abyss  is  now  my  pain. 

I  sit  alone,  I  hear  no  rustle  stir; 

Dead  silence  reigns,  and  doth  the  chamber  fill. 
The  sky  as  if  with  pity  gazes  down; 

The  night  is  hushed  and  mute,  the  night  is  still. 

Not  many  years  ago  I  yet  was  young; 

I  hoped,  I  thought,  with  sanguine  ardor  deep, 
I  surely  should  be  able  with  my  songs 

To  bring  great  comfort  unto  those  that  weep. 

I  hoped  a  golden  age  would  quickly  come, 

That  soon  a  good  and  gracious  day  would  rise, 

And  that  songs  freely  chanted,  strong  and  new, 

Would  drown  the  sound  of  sorrow  and  of  sighs. 

I  hoped  that  all  humanity  ere  long 

Would  wisdom  gain,  would  mighty  grow  and  strong, 
And  with  a  voice  as  of  a  hundred  lions 

Would  roar :     "Enough !  Enough  of  suffering  wrong ! 

"Enough  of  being  endlessly  enslaved, 

And  bearing,  like  a  horse,  the  yoke  from  birth ! 

All  human  beings  surely  ought  to  live ; 

The  world  is  rich,  and  large  the  teeming  earth." 

— 21  — 


'Twas  thus  I  thought;  but  now  I  understand 
That  my  ideal  is  distant  many  years. 

I  hear  the  sighs  and  sobbing  of  the  weak; 
On  every  side  I  witness  flowing  tears. 

A  wide,  dense  vapor  still  obscures  the  sky 

Of  all  humanity,  and  clouds  it  o'er. 
The  old  chains  strongly  clank,  and  day  by  day 

They  still  are  forging  new  ones,  more  and  more. 
*  *  *  *  *  # 

The  night  is  silent,  like  a  graveyard  hushed; 

I  sit  alone  and  careworn,  without  sleep. 
My  heart  is  crushed  and  broken  by  despair; 

I  write  my  mournful  song,  and  weep  and  weep. 


A   LAMENTATION. 

Already  centuries  have  passed  away 

Since  the  great  woe  befell  our  race  and  name, 
Enveloping  our  sky  in  darkest  night. 

Since  then  we  have  endured  the  utmost  shame; 
For  foreign  sins  a  sacrifice  are  we; 
We  sigh,  we  weep — he  laughs,  our  enemy ! 

Three  times  already  have  they  bent  our  pride ; 

To  stifle  down  the  spirit  free  they  seek 
That  gives  us  strength  to  suffer  all  this  pain. 

To  us  the  world  has  grown  a  graveyard  bleak, 
And  from  the  world,  in  terror  and  in  dread, 
We  must  beg  justice,  as  a  beggar  bread. 

We  have  no  place  where  we  may  sit  secure ; 

The  cruel  foe  advances  like  a  gale, 
A  whirlwind,  shattering  all  things  in  its  path, 

And  neither  prayers  nor  tears  can  then  avail. 
The  Hebrew  homes  are  soon  a  mass  of  flame, 
The  Hebrew  daughters  suffer  deadly  shame. 

— 22 — 


How  great  is  our  misfortune  and  our  woe! 

We  are  tired  out  with  waiting,  hopes  and  fears. 
Bitter  and  heavy  is  our  banishment; 

Like  slaves  we  bear  the  chains  of  these  long  years. 
We  have  no  arms  but  what  are  powerless  here — 
A  lamentation  sad,  a  prayer,  a  tear. 


Oh,  many  of  us  have  in  exile  changed 

The  Hebrew  ways  for  foreign  follies  vain, 

Have  left  the  Hebrew  God  for  golden  calves. 

And  what  has  chanced?     My  nation,  racked  with  pain! 

Lo!  thou  among  the  nations  canst  not  rise; 

They  ridicule  thee,  and  thy  name  despise ! 


Oh,  when  at  last  shall  be  an  end  of  tears? 

Oh,  when  shall  we  see  rising,  bright  and  clear, 
The  Hebrew  star  above  our  pathway  dark, 

So  full  of  thorns  for  many  a  weary  year? 
When  will  the  noise  of  rushing  waves  be  o'er? 
When  will  our  little  boat  attain  the  shore? 


The  shore  of  Zion,  holy  and  beloved, 

Where,  as  we  hope,  again  shall  bloom  and  shine 
For  us  the  flowers  of  Sharon,  as  of  yore. 

Dear  to  me,  Zion,  each  small  stone  of  thine — 
Sacred  and  dear;  a  love  that  can  not  fail 
Burns  in  my  bosom  for  thy  every  vale ! 


My  heart  will  overbrim  with  happiness 

When  thee,  my  Holy  Land,  at  last  I  see, 

And  on  thy  ruins  press  an  ardent  kiss. 

Meanwhile,   I  still  am  distant  far  from  thee, 

And  send  to  thee,  O  Zion,  this  my  lay — 

An  exile's  greeting,  breathed  from  far  away! 

—23— 


ON  RUSSIA'S  FRONTIER. 

For  the  last  time  I  lifted  up  mine  eyes 
To  see  the  land  wherein  so  many  years 

I  suffered  wrong,  where  buried  lies  my  hope. 

I  would  have  wept,  but  frozen  were  my  tears. 

In  vain  I  strove  to  sigh;  my  broken  heart 

Was  changed  to  stone,  alas !  congealed  its  blood. 

For  the  last  time  my  native  country's  sky 

Spread  o'er  my  head;  like  one  fresh  stunned  I  stood. 

Upon  my  lips  there  hovered  curses  deep; 

Cursed  be  Russia,  bloodstained,  without  ruth, 
That  loves  fools  only,  and  detests  the  wise — 

Those  who  aspire  to  freedom,  justice,  truth! 

Brothers  in  exile  lay  in  slumber  there, 

Brothers  my  love  for  whom  is  warm  and  great; 

And  I  have  left  them,  and  my  sad  soul  sighs, 
Their  spirit  has  been  broken  by  their  fate. 

I  know;  I  suffered  with  them;  oh,  we  all 

Suffered  together  in  the  vale  of  tears ! 
Russia's  frontier  for  the  last  time  I  see; 

Oh,  cursed  be  that  land  of  pain  and  fears! 

•Cursed  her  populace,  that  kiss  the  rod! 

Had  the  poor  people  not  in  sleep  lain  low, 
Had  they  said,  "Take  away  the  smiting  rod !" 

Sceptre  and  Czar  had  vanished  long  ago. 

Brothers  in  exile,  given  o'er  to  pain, 

For  whom  the  bright  sun  shines  not  on  his  rounds, 
Who  in  their  slavery  persist,  and  live 

The  lives  of  dogs — oh,  could  I  heal  their  wounds ! 


—24- 


Oh,  could  I  make  their  mournful  faces  glad, 

Now  wrinkled  ere  their  time,  with  grief  and  wrong 

All  clouded  o'er!  Oh,  could  I  let  them  hear 

A  song  as  fresh  as  springtime,  new  and  strong, 

That  could  console  the  mourners,  the  forlorn ! 

Oh,  could  I  make  them  all  forget  their  pain — 
Sweeten  their  fate,  their  suffering  sweep  away, 

Destroy  the  slavery  and  break  the  chain! 


MY  CURSE. 

In  all  of  the  houses  of  prayer  in  which  Mary's  son's  worshipers  meet, 
The  multitudes  greater  had  grown;  the  voice  of  loud  chanting 

was  heard. 

The  priests  of  the  household  of  falsehood  their  own  disobedience  hid, 
And  to  all  of  the  folk  of  the  city  they  preached  pure  morality's 
word. 

To  the  houses  of  prayer  all  the  Christians  were  streaming,  because  on 

that  day 

For  them  all  it  was  holiday  time ;  today  is  their  great  Easter  feast. 
Their  faces  are  beaming  with  joy  in  the  clear,  pleasant  rays  of  the 

sun; 

The  sun  from  the  clouds  has  come  forth,  and  the  warmth  of  the 
air  has  increased. 

Bright  now  shines  the  sun  in  the  heavens ;  his  light  is  spread  widely 

abroad, 

Like  a  canopy  made  all  of  gold,  in  the  infinite  height  of  the  sky ; 
And  crowds  upon  crowds  have  walked  out,  and  the  fair  city  garden 

is  filled 

As  full  as  a  nestful  of  birds  ere  the  fledgelings  have  learned  how 
to  fly. 

—25— 


The  fair  city  garden  is  full;  there  is  merriment,  singing  and  joy; 

From  near  and  from  far  on  the  air  the  notes  of  gay  laughter  are 

shed. 
Sweet  winds  as  of  Eden  are  blowing;  the  air  is  all  balmy  and  mild, 

And  like  to  a  carpet  unrolled,  the  heavens  above  are  outspread. 

The  trees,  purifying  themselves   for  the   Spring,   have   their  part  iri 

the  feast; 
The   flower  joys   in  playing   in  love   with  the  bud,  by  the  soft 

zephyr  stirred; 

In  the  warm,  gentle  light  of  the  sun  dance  the  butterflies,  flitting  about, 
And  sometimes  the  birds  'mid  the  boughs  let  the  notes  of  their 
music  be  heard. 

But  lo !  on  a  sudden,  a  tumult,  all  blent  with  wild  laughter,  arose ; 
It  filled  all  the  streets  and  the  squares,  and  increased  like  the 

noise  of  a  flood; 
Base  creatures,  mean,  little  and  low,  who  had  grown  to  be  great  in 

a  night, 

Began  now  to  shout  with  loud  voices,  all  clamoring,  "Plunder 
and  blood !" 

"Destruction,"  they   shouted,   "destruction  and   death  to  the  seed  of 

the  Jews ! 

The  Government  thus  has  decreed,  and  already  has  given  com- 
mands. 

Our  arm  is  supreme ;  let  us  go  forth  today  through  the  city  in  bands, 
And  fill  up  our  homes   with  rich  booty    (oh,   joy!),   which  lies 
waiting  our  hands." 

And  so  they   went  forth,  the   destroyers,   grandchildren  of  Satan- 
yea,  all 

The  messengers  of  the  Inferno,  the  hateful  companions  of  hell. 
And  then  the  great  slaughter  began,  and  they  slew  old  and  young, 

great  and  small; 

They  cut  down  on  the  right  and  destroyed  on  the  left,  in  their 
cruelty  fell. 

—26— 


The  homes  of  the  Jews  they  demolished,  they  razed  them,  founda- 
tions and  all; 

They  spared  not  the  aged,  nor  pitied  the  nursing  babe,  blind  to 
its  fate; 

The  maidens  they  outraged — crushed  virgins  were  weltering  there  in 
the  streets 

As  refuse  lies  cast  out  unheeded,  unpitied — their  numbers,  how  great  I 

"» 
They  smote  and  they  outraged — O  Lord  of  the  Universe,  where  wast 

Thou  then, 
When  the  hand  of  the  stranger  was  mighty,  uplifted  to  strike 

and  to  slay? 
Ah,  why  did  Thy  thunders  not  hurl  their  deep  voice  from  the  heavens 

on  high, 

To  crush  him,  the  foul,  fiendish  tyrant,  destroy  him  and  sweep 
him  away? 

How  long  shall  the  government  base  of  the  Romanoffs  yet  hold  its 

sway, 
The  rule  that  breeds  crime  and  brutality?     God  of  salvation,  I 

pray, 
Oh,  list  to  my  voice!     Wipe  it  out!     And  the  sceptre  shall  pass  and 

depart, 
And  vanish  away  from  the  hand  of  its  leader  forever  and  aye! 

Oh,  pour  out,  Almighty,   I  pray  Thee,  Thy  wrath  on  that  country 

accurst, 
Or*  Russia,  that  knows  not  compassion,   that  counts   might   for 

right  in  the  strife! 
For  the  blood  of  Thy  servants  Thy  vengeance  among  all  the  nations 

make  known, 

And  blot  Russia  out  evermore  i'rom  the  book  of  existence  and 
life! 

—27— 


TO  THE  EXECUTIONER. 

You  are  rejoicing;  at  my  every  tear 

You  laugh!     Well,  at  my  fate  laugh  on  with  glee! 
Before  you,  murderer,  I  lose  not  heart; 

Dare  not  imagine  me  a  coward  to  be! 

I  weep,  but  these  are  not  the  tears  of  fear; 

I  can  face  calmly  and  without  affright 
All  tortures,  every  hellish  punishment; 

I  weep  because  the  army  of  the  right 

Loses  in  me  a  soldier  and  a  friend 

Who  proudly  bore  our  sacred  banner  high; 

But  I  am  calm,  and  ready  without  fear 
To  fall  a  prey  to  you,  my  enemy ! 

Delay  not  to  erect  your  altar,  Cain — 

Altar  of  Satan,  whereon  I  must  bleed. 

To  slay  your  fellow-creatures  is  your  trade; 

Then,  heartless  one,  make  haste  to  do  your  deed ! 

But  all  of  you  will  some  day  be  repaid 

A  hundredfold  for  all  the  blood  you  shed; 

To  pillories  of  shame  you  will  be  dragged, 

There  to  be  nailed  till  centuries  have  fled. 


—28— 


TIME. 

Time,  our  enemy  and  our  instructor, 

Thou  our  judge  and  our  deliverer  art, 
Executioner  and  strong  defender; 

Joy  and  gladness,   tears  and  grief  of  heart, 
Wailing  and  despairing  lamentation, 

Love  and  hope,  whate'er  the  soul  elates — 
All  these  divers  things  Time  brings  unto  us; 

He  it  is  destroys,  and  he  creates. 
Time,  I  pray  thee,  give  to  me  oblivion ! 

In  it  my  enjoyment  I  will  find; 
Peaceful  slumber  after  toilsome  labor. 

Lure  me  not  where  dwell,  to  snare  the  mind, 
Hopes  and  happiness !     Lo,  cold  and  hunger, 

Dreariness  and  every  bitter  thing, 
For  these  many  years  my  breast  have  wasted. 

Now  I  do  not  sing,  I  do  not  sing! 
I  have  sought  in  life  for  joy  and  gladness, 

I  have  sung  and  prayed  and  waited  long, 
But  I  am  discouraged  and  disheartened! 

Now  a  song  of  pain,  a  mournful  song, 
May  be  sung — a  song  of  castle-building, 

And  of  poverty,  disgrace,  defeat. 
Time,  oh,  let  me  die,  or  grant  oblivion! 

In  it  I  will  find  enjoyment  sweet. 


A  PRAYER. 

O,  Thou  great  God,  my  invocation  hear ! 

Hear  from  on  high  in  heaven,  I  pray  to  Thee ! 
My  path  is  thorny;  only  pain  and  grief 

And  suffering  has  my  fate  doled  out  to  me. 

But  I  complain  not  of  harsh  destiny; 

I  to  the  needful  can  my  mind  subdue; 
When  the  storm  comes,  I  weep  my  fill,  and  then, 

With  spirit  keen,  enter  the  fray  anew. 

—29— 


O  Thou  great  God,  hear  Thou  the  prayer  I  make! 

I  call  on  Thee  for  aid.     Almighty  Lord, 
To  the  unhappy  grant  forgetfulness, 

To  orphans  and  the  homeless,  warmth  afford. 

Into  the  hearts  of  cruel  men  instill 

Love  for  those  scorned  by  fortune,  near  or  far, 
And  the  hard  pathway  by  the  lonely  trod 

Illuminate,  O  Father,  with  Thy  star ! 

Strengthen  the  youthful  powers;  forsake  them  not 
In  the  dread  hour  of  trial  and  of  fight! 

Into  the  nooks  where  now  there  dwells  a  gloom 
As  of  the  sepulchre,  Lord,  send  more  light! 


MY  TOMBSTONE. 

Oh,  I  am  weak  and  ill !     I  know,  not  long, 

Brothers,  shall  I  behold  you,  hear  your  speech. 

Though  I  have  lived  and  striven,  yet  my  aim 
Ever  and  ever  I  have  failed  to  reach. 

Oh,  I  have  lived  and  loved  with  all  my  heart 
The  persecuted,  those  the  yoke  who  bear ; 

And  oft  by  night,  when  silent  was  the  world, 

My  bitter  "Woe !"  was  breathed  upon  the  air. 

Now  I  am  weak  and  ill;  I  hear  Death  creep 
Close  to  my  door — he  soon  will  cross  the  sill. 

He  will  extinguish  soon  my  light  of  life, 

Where  it  in  anguish  burns  within  me  still. 

—30— 


Something  I  wish  to  ask  of  you,  my  friends: 
Dig  me  a  grave  where  forest  boughs  are  stirred 

By  a  soft  wind,  where  flows  a  fair,  clear  stream, 
And  where  a  song  divine  is  always  heard. 

Place  o'er  my  grave  a  very  simple  stone, 

And  write  upon  it,  "Here  a  poet  lies; 

He  fought  with  vehemence,  and  thoughts  of  love 
Spoke  in  his  verse  alone,  in  tender  guise. 

"With  honesty  he  hated  and  he  loved; 

He  often  warmed  with  truth  the  hearts  of  men. 
Now  from  life's  heavy  burden  he  is  free, 

And  Death  has  broken  for  all  time  his  pen.'* 


TO  MY  NATION: 

My  nation !     Ah,  I  recognize  thee  not ! 

What  on  a  sudden  has  become  of  thee? 
Art  thou  the  same  "wise  nation"  as  of  yore, 

The  hero  of  past  years,  the  brave,  the  free? 

Where  is  thy  strength,  thy  understanding  now  ? 

Where  is  thy  name,  and  where  thy  old-time  worth? 
Where  are  thy  treasure  and  thy  temple  found? 

Where  is  thy  dwelling,  where  thy  native  earth? 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  one,  by  day, 

And  where  by  night  ?    Where  dost  thou  sleep,  where  rest  ? 
Hast  thou  a  place  where  thou  mayest  lean  thy  head? 

Nay,  all  men  thrust  thee  forth,  unwelcome  guest! 


They  hunt  thee,  smite  thee,  burn  thee,  without  ruth, 
Pursue  thee,  and  like  leeches  suck  thy  blood ; 

Ah,  they  tear  out  the  marrow  of  thy  bones ! 
Thy  persecutions  are  a  ceaseless  flood. 

The  world  to  thee  a  graveyard  has  become ; 

Thou  seest  but  tombs,  where'er  thy  glances  fall. 
Wild  beasts  that  claim  to  bear  the  name  of  men 

Have  changed  thy  life  to  bitterness  and  gall. 

They  cast  reproach  on  thy  antiquity, 

Thy  nobleness,  thy  faith;  thy  flag  they  tear; 
Do  thee  dishonor,  injury  and  wrong; — 

And  thou,  alas,  my  brother,  dost  not  care ! 

Thy  Bible,  God  and  Talmud  they  blaspheme, 

They  trample  on  them  with  a  scornful  heart ; 

And  all  this  seems  to  thee  of  no  concern. 

Brother,  thou  hast  forgotten  who  thou  art! 

Yea,  thou  art  wholly  changed,  O  Israel ! 

Thou  hast  forgot  thy  value  and  thy  worth. 
Thou  fearest,  tremblest,  creepest  like  a  worm, 
And  before  all  men  bowest  to  the  earth. 

Looking  upon  thee,  my  beloved  one, 

My  heart  is  rent  in  twain  and  filled  with  gall. 
I  see  that  every  drunkard  flouts  thee  now, 

And  yet,  alas!  this  moves  thee  not  at  all! 

Brother,  no  persecution  touches  thee, 

No  stone,  no  blow,  no  pain,  no  deep  disgrace. 

By  traffic  thou  art  wholly  borne  away, 

And  every  "Katsap"  smites  thee  in  the  face. 

Thou  fallest  oft  asleep,  and  dost  through  sleep 
Miss  thy  desires ;  and  this  thou  thinkest  right. 

Enough  of  slumber,  Israel,  my  love! 

Enough  of  suffering  'neath  affliction's  blight! 

—32— 


Wake,  rub  thine  eyes!     Thou  shalt  not  bow  the  head 
Before  each  man  with  power  to  strike  a  blow. 

O  my  poor  nation !     Prince  of  all  the  East ! 

Thou  wast  an  eagle  once,  long  years  ago — 

An  eagle,  cleaving  with  her  wings  the  clouds, 
And  resting  in  the  lap  of  heaven,  elate. 

To  thee  the  Cherubim  were  wont  to  sing, 

"Thou,  Israel,  art  noble,  thou  art  great!" 

The  sun  upon  thy  proud  and  mighty  head 

Was  wont  of  old  to  shed  a  myriad  rays; 

The  stars  of  heaven  used  to  beckon  thee, 

And  speed  before  thee  through  the  sky's  blue  ways. 

Exalted,  proud  and  fearless  wast  thou  then; 

Thou  strovest  aye  for  light,  with  yearning  strong. 
Why  hast  thou  now  become  e'en  as  a  worm 

That  bows  itself,  and  crawls  and  creeps  along? 

Thou  art  the  son  of  heroes  of  renown, 

World-famous  men,  to  whom  God's  favor  clave ; 
From  Joshua  and  King  David  thou  art  sprung, 

The  bravest  hero  among  all  the  brave. 

Forget  not,  brother,  the  Hasmoneans, 

The  noble  Maccabees,  who  knew  no  fears ! 

And  thou  art  musing  upon  empty  dreams, 
And  hast  endured,  alas,  so  many  years ! 

Israel,  thou  weepest,  and  considerest  not 

Whom  thou  dost  shed  thy  bitter  tears  before. 

Thy  weeping,  thy  complaint,  none  wish  to  hear; 
Thou  art  a  laughing-stock,  and  nothing  more. 

Consider  before  whom  thou  dost  complain, 
Wiping  away  thy  salt  tears  as  they  fall. 

Thou  criest,  and  they  smite  thee;  thou  complain'st, 
And  they  pursue  thee,  for  no  cause  at  all. 

—33— 


O  my  poor  nation !     Tis  high  time  for  thee 

To  think  it  suits  thee  not  the  coward  to  play. 

By  thy  complaints  and  cries,  thy  sighs  and  groans, 
Unmoved  the  enemy  remains  alway. 

He  does  not  wish  to  hear  thy  groans,  thy  sighs ; 

He  understands  not  thy  complaint,  thy  moan. 
Thy  bitter  crying  cannot  touch  his  heart. 

His  heart  is  made  of  iron,  of  flinty  stone. 

His  heart  is  petrified;    he  will  not  hear 

Thy  truthful  plea,  how  just  soe'er  thy  case. 

Israel,  dream  not!     A  tiger  still  will  tear 

The  sheep,  where'er  they  be,  in  every  place. 

As  long  as  thou  remainest  but  a  sheep, 

So  long  the  tiger  still  will  lap  thy  gore. 

Awake,  O  Israel,  thine  ancient  strength ! 

Resume  the  courage  of  the  days  of  yore ! 

Thy  Sampson's  courage,  who  victoriously 

From  his  bound  hands  the  fettering  ropes  did  rend. 
Arise,  my  nation !     Rise,  and  break  thy  chains, 

And  bring  thy  years  of  exile  to  an  end ! 


AFTER  THE  BASLE  CONGRESS. 

What  is  all  this  tumult  in  our  nation? 

Tell  me,  darling,  for  I  fain  would  know. 
"For  the  sake  of  a  great  cause  and  holy, 

Forward,  brethren,   forward  let  us  goP 

Say  of  what  they  now  their  songs  are  singing, 
All  the  brethren  of  our  blood  and  race? 

All  around  a  holy  "Rise!"  re-echoes, 
Expectation  is  on  every  face. 

—34— 


All    await — what    comfort?     Who   will   bring    it? 

The  Messiah,  sought  these  many  years? 
Wherefore  are  they  weeping?     Why   rejoicing? 

Tell  me  why  their  joy  is  mixed  with  tears? 

Poor  our  brethren  are,  I  know,  my  darling, 
And  they  are  not  suffered  to  complain ; 

And  they  cannot  laugh   with   freedom — strangers 
Drive  them  and  oppress  them,  work  them  pain. 

But,  my  dear,  what  is  this  agitation 

Going  on  among  them  eagerly? 
What  these  rumors,   spread  abroad  among  us? 

Lively  movement  everywhere  I  see. 

Songs  of  a  new  life  I  hear  them  singing, 
Life  of  work  and  longed-for  liberty — 

Yea,  a  life  in  our  own  native  country ! 
Can  all  this  but  an  illusion  be? 


Or  perhaps,  my  dearest,  I  am  dreaming. 

Mother,  what  my  brothers  read  I  heard. 
I  remember  all  of  their  discussions. 

"It  is  time  to  waken !"  was  their  word. 


"Day  is  breaking,  and  the  hour  approaches 

When  the  dawn  our  souls  from  sleep  shall  rouse. 

We  will  go  forth  fearlessly  and  proudly 

To  our  own  fields,  following  the  plows ; 

"Singing  songs  of  toil.     Let  us  go  thither 

Where,  well  guarded  by  the  centuries  long, 

Stately  palm  trees  grow,  and  where  the  daughters 
Of  Jerusalem  once  sang  their  song; 

-35- 


"Where  the  myrtles  and  the  roses  blossom. 

Let  us  go  o'er  mountain  and  through  wood, 
In  a  company,  all  blithe  and  friendly; 

Fearless,  brethren,  cross  the  sea's  wide  flood. 

"On,  press  onward,  helmsman!     We  should  fear  not; 

The  whole  sea  of  pain  we'll  empty  make, 
Drop  by  drop,  and  to  the  bottom  drain  it 
For  our  sacred  old  traditions'  sake. 


"In  a  silent  prayer  we'll  name  or  martyrs. 

Storms  will  cease  when  to  our  native  strand 
We  have  come.     Messiah  in  full  glory 

Will  appear  then  in  our  fatherland." 

Tell  me,  dear,  our  fatherland,  where  is  it? 

Tell  me,  dearest,  where?     Do  you  not  know? 
Do  heaven's  angels  dwell  there?     Do  birds  sing  there? 

There  do  lilies  fair  and  roses  blow? 


Wondrous  stories  heard  I  from  my  grandsire 

Of  this  fatherland,  at  eventide, 
When  he  kept  my  drowsy  lids  from  closing, 

Whispering  o'er  me,  sad  and  tearful-eyed: 

"It  is  time  for  me  to  rest  forever ; 

Aches  my  heart  and  shakes  my  aged  hand. 
Lord,  I  pray  my  grandchildren  may  see  it, 

Holy  Zion,  our  dear  native  land! 

"I  believe  that  better  times  are  coming; 

Our  poor  nation  from  its  sleep  shall  start, 
And  shall  proudly  raise  the  flag  of  freedom, 

Crying,  'Forward!  on,  with  fearless  heart !' " 

-36- 


Why  so  often  do  they  sing  of  Zion? 

Why  do  thoughts  of  it  disturb  your  rest? 
Why  now,  mother,  on  all  sides  re-echoes 

"Zion,  oh,  our  native  country  blest!"? 

"Zion!?J  thus  the  sorrowing  mother  whispered, 
Fondling  her  loved  darling  o'er  and  o'er, 

"Child!     O  dearest  child  of  mine!     In  Zion 

We  shall  have  our  own  dear  home  once  more! 

"Zion  is  our  faith,  child!"     "O,  dear  mother, 

I  can  understand  it  all  today, 
And  for  that  loved  country  of  our  fathers 

I  with  longing  and  with  tears  will  pray!" 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 

DESPAIR. 
How  heavy  the  fetters  that  bind  me, 

Mine  exile  how  bitter  and  drear! 
Nigh  spent  my  endurance,  and  hope  dies, 

While  sorrow  is  near ! 

How  cruel  the  oppressors  and  mighty, 

Who  seek  my  defeat! 
They  laid  low  my  glory,   and  trampled 

As  the  dust  of  the  street! 

HOPE* 

Within  me  yet  Hope  lives  and  quivers, 

Tis  mine  heritage  old; 
To  my  heart  consolation  she  murmurs, 

To  soothe  me  makes  bold. 

—37— 


And  ever  how  gently  she  whispers : 

"Despair  not,  O  Israel's  line! 
From  the  lights  of  fair  Zion  will  gleam  yet 

The  sun — yea,  for  thee  it  will  shine ! 

"Through  the  cracks  of  the  Wailing  Wall  streaming, 

A  new  light  shall  gleam. 
Across  Lebanon's  tall  cedars  and  ancient, 

A  mighty  voice  will  proclaim : 

"  'Shake  thyself  from  the  dust,  O  lost  nation ! 

Thy  life  from  the  fetters,  oh,  save ! 
The  land  of  thine  exile  abandon — 

Stand  upright  and  brave!' 

"Remove,  yea,  cast  off  the  dreaded  shackles ! 

A  slave  is  Israel,  say? 
Athwart  the  heights  of  Lebanon,  O  wanderer ! 

Shall  dawn  thy  new  day !" 

REGENERATION. 

On  Zion's  fair  shore,  my  songs  as  of  yore 

I  will  sing! 
Through  Sharon's  wide  plain,  my  harp's  clear  refrain 

Shall  ring! 
In  Freedom  none  grieves,  they  are  bearing  the  sheaves 

With  great  joy. 
Here   found  they  release,  the  oppressor  shall  cease 

To  destroy. 

Zion's  children  will  now  to  the  spade  and  the  plow 

Cling  with  their  might. 
Every  daughter  and  son,  to  the  vineyards  will  run 

With  delight. 

And  anew  the  sun,  for  the  captive  one, 

Shall  glorious  shine! 
She  will  mourn  no  more,  but  sing  as  of  yore, 

"Praise  the  Lord,  the  divine !" 


A  ZIONIST  MARSEILLAISE. 

I  o'er  our  sad  lot  have  already  lamented; 

With  blood  I  have  written,  and  not  once  alone. 
I  cannot  rest  now,  for  the  question  eternal, 

"Oh,  what  avail  tears,  when  our  courage  is  flown?" 

Through  sighing  and  crying,  my  poor,  wretched  brethren, 

No  nation  can  ever  its  object  attain. 
In  love  we  must  all  unite  strongly  together, 

And  work  with  sincerity,  work  might  and  main. 

We  must  not  look  out  for  a  single  man's  fortune, 
But  for  our  whole  nation  instead  we  must  care; 

And  we  must  all  seek  to  refresh  and  enliven 

Our  nation's  sick  soul,  in  all  lands,  everywhere. 

Our  life  belongs  not  to  ourselves  but  our  nation. 

O  brothers,  in  unison  work  hard  and  long, 
Until  to  our  nation  at  last  we  give  freedom, 

To  sing  in  our  Zion  once  more  a  free  song! 


THE  JEWISH  MARSEILLAISE. 

Defend  your  freedom !     Heroes  be,  not  cowards ! 

With  courage  enter  on  the  righteous  fight. 
Despise  the  coward,  who  bows  himself  to  kiss, 

With  fawning  base,  his  foeman's  rod  of  might. 

Let  not  yourselves  be  trodden  on  like  worms ! 

Your  honor,  dearest  treasure,  guard  right  well. 
Better  to  lie  as  heroes  in  your  graves 

Than  in  rich  palaces  as  slaves  to  dwell. 

—39— 


The  Jews  are  rich  in  persecutors  fierce, 

And  poor  in  helpers.     Oh,  their  woe  is  great ! 

Enough  of  caring  but  for  foreigners, 

When  they  kill  Jews  like  sheep,  in  rage  and  hate! 

Enough  of  combating  for  those  who  think 

Prisons  are  justice,  might  doth  judgment  make! 

Do  you  not  hear  the  weary  Hebrews  weep  ? 

Where  are  you,  champions?    Waken  now,  oh,  wake! 

Wake,  liberty  and  honor  to  defend, 

And  end  the  exile  of  the  Jews  at  last ! 
Shatter  and  crush  to  bits  the  heavy  chains 

That  until  now  have  bound  their  hands  so  fast! 


THE  PROPHET. 

When   from  heaven's  veil  the  morning  star  conies   forth, 
Making  her  way  'twixt  clouds  with  dawn  aflush, 

And  in  the  boundless  height  her  fair  light  spreads, 

While   o'er   the   world   yet   reigns   a   solemn   hush, — 

All  eyes   shut   fast,  earth  wrapped  in  quiet  sweet, — 

The  prophet  is  awake,  and  walks  the  street! 

Slowly  he  walks,  musing  with  head  downbent, 
His  brows  of  wrinkles  full,  and  sad  his  face. 

His  eyes  are  glowing  like  two  coals  of  fire, 
But  on  his  lips  a  tender  smile  has  place; 

'Tis  full  of  pity,  full  of  sorrow  mute; 

And  black  his  garments  are  from  head  to  foot. 

Silent  the  prophet  walks.     A  wondrous   day, 
A  day  of  spring!     It  seems,  divine  repose 

Broods   o'er  the  earth  around;   the  sun   darts   fire, 

The  tall  trees  wave  their  leaves,  the  green  grass  grows; 

The  roses  all  with  dewy  freshness  gleam, 

As  if  they  had  been  bathing  in  the  stream. 

—40— 


As  it  would  breathe  a  secret  to  the  earth, 

A  soft  and  balmy  wind  is  murmuring  low; 

It  clings  to  her  with  yearnings  of  a  son. 

Sometimes  the  green  leaves  flicker  to  and  fro, 

And  each  to  each  in  its  own  language  says, 

"The  world  is  beautiful  and  full  of  grace!" 


Mute  walks  the  prophet,  full  of  bitter  grief. 

The  sun  with  golden  rays  illumes  his  way, 
And  on  his  head  pours  light  and  warmth  in  floods. 

He  looks  not  on  the  splendor  of  the  day; 
His  heart  is  moved  by  utmost  misery; 
He  cannot  tell  it:     "Dumb  and  silent  be!?' 


He  cannot!     All  around  are  trickling  tears, 

The  tears  of  the  oppressed,  grown  used  to  grief, 

Hated  by  fate,  and  by  misfortune  loved, 

Who  live  in  spirit,  and  whose  days  are  brief; 

Who  in  their  own  hot  tears  their  bread  must   steep — 

Their   dry  bread,  earned  with  toil  and  anguish  deep. 


The  prophet  walks. — "The  prophet  is  insane !" 

Sometimes  the  wind  brings  to  his  ears  this  cry. 

"Senseless  he  is;  he  opes  his  mouth  in  vain!" 

Thus  speak  among  themselves  the  passers-by, 

Who  break  the  Lord's  commands,  of  shameless  life, 

Loving  contention,  calling  out  for  strife. 


The  prophet  walks.     But  now  and  then  he  halts, 
And  cries  aloud,  "Ye  men  of  blood,  woe,  woe! 

How  long  will  ye  plot  harm  against  the  poor? 
How  long  will  ye  oppress  the  needy?     Lo, 

Worse  than  wild  beasts'  your  deeds;  the  people's  flesh 

You  eat,  as  eats  the  moth  a  garment's  mesh! 

—41— 


"The  widow's  righteous  claim  ye  do  not  heed, 

Because  she  brings  the  judge  no  gift.     Behold, 

A  bribe  appeases  wrath;  judgment  ye  give 
Still  for  the  evil-doer  who  has  gold, 

Though  deep  be  his  transgression  as  a  grave, 

Because  he  fills  your  hands  with  what  you  crave. 


"Vilely  ye  have  provoked  the  Lord  your  God; 

Like  words  of  revelation  seem  to  you 
The  Gentiles'  words;  so  ye  bow  down  to  Baal, 

Break  every  law,   serve   a   strange   God  and  new. 
You   from  your  nation  turn   away  and  mock; 
To  you  God's  word  is  grown  a  laughing-stock! 


"Woe  to  ye,  men  of  fraud!     O   men  of  blood! 

Ye  think  within  your  hearts  that  ye  are  wise, 
Your  prophets,  fools  and  blind;  that  evermore 

Ye  shall  live  on,  as  now,  in  prosperous  guise. 
E'en  though  ye  sow  injustice  and  speak  lies, 
Ye  think  that  no  avenger  will  arise. 


"Make  haste  to  wash  and  purify  yourselves 
Before  that  day,  that  fearful  day  has  birth, 

The  day  of  pain,  of  punishment  and  woe, 

When  God  shall  rise  to  fill  with  awe  the  earth, 

And  deeds  of  violence  to  annihilate. 

I  see  it,  it  is  near,  'tis  at  the  gate!" 


The  prophet  walks;  and  now  and  then  the  wind 
Brings  to  his  ears,   "The  prophet  is  insane! 

His  words  are  folly  all,  and  meaningless. '? 

Thus  speak  and  say  the  scoffers,  the  profane 

Light-minded   sinners,   idly   chattering   still, 

And  trampling  on  the  people's  heads  at  will. 


•42- 


When  day  is  setting  and  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  bright  stars  glitter  in  the  heaven's  blue, 

He  leaves  the  gathered  scoffers,  seeks  his  home, 
And  with  hot  tear-drops  doth  his  bed  bedew, 

Praying,  "O  Lord,   forgive  this  generation, 

The  children  of  Thy  sore-afflicted  nation ! 


"Behold  and  see  how  they  are  now  disgraced 
Among  the  nations !     Fugitives  are  they 

And  wanderers;  like  shadows,  lo,  they  roam, 
And  at  each  step  of  their  unending  way 

They  find  but  thorn  and  thistle  'neath  their   feet! 

If  Thou  wouldst  have  them  serve  Thee  as  is  meet, 


"Hurl  down  the  hostile  throne !     Oppression's  power 
Scatter  like  chaff!"     And  he  forgetteth  quite 

The  day  of  punishment,  the  day  of  wrath, 

And  sweet  he  finds  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

There  hovers  on  his  lips  a  lovely  smile, 

And  peace  divine  rests  on  his  head  the  while. 


TO  THE  FALSE   PROPHETS. 

Ye  speak  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  though  the  Lord  hath  not  sent  you ; 
Your  tongues  forge  deceit,  like  your  thoughts,  which  hypocrisies 

blight. 

Words  softer  than  oil  do  ye  give  to  all  those  who  pass  by  you; 
Within  your  hearts'  temple,  ye  base  ones,  there  burns  not  God's 

light. 

Till  ye  have  performed  deeds  of  evil,  ye  seek  not  your  couches. 
Ye  with  emptiness  walk,  and  your  fortress  is  malice  and  spite. 

—43— 


Ye  speak  peace  with  your  lips,  and  war  dwells  in  your  hearts  while 

you  speak  it. 

Like  the  pillar  of  cloud,  on  your  threshold  stands  ever  the  sweet, 
Pleasant  lie,  your  beloved  companion.     Ye  know  that  the  rabble 

Inflict  on  their  censurers  wounds  undeserved  and  unmeet, 
And  that  they  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  can  find  favor  no  longer, 

And  therefore  ye  do  not  rebuke.     And  while  walking  the  street, 

i 

Ye  talk  with  the  hypocrite's  art  to  all  those  who  approach  you, 
And  flattery  quits  not  your  lips,  which  are  smiling  and  cold. 

You  make  it  your  shelter,  it  covers  you  over  like  armor. 

You  stretch  out  your  hands  to  all  villains  to  shake  and  to  hold: 

Your  brother  is  fraudulent  cunning,  your  friend,  the  God  Baal; 
Your  idol  is  money,  your  master,  the  purse  full  of  gold. 

On  your  heads  rest  your  sins,  and  through  them  ye  shall  perish  and 

vanish. 
You  strike  those   who   see  you   with   blindness,   confusing   their 

thought, 

And  they  do  not  see  rightly ;  their  eyes  are  closed,  holden  from  seeing. 
But  all  your  misdeeds,  ye  base  beings,  will  soon  come  to  naught. 
For,  lo!  the  false  prophets  already  are  passing,  departing, 

Decreasing,  diminishing — this  hath  the  hand  of  Truth  wrought! 


THE  VOICE  OF  GOD. 

Day  set;  night  fell — a  wondrous  lovely  night, 
A  night  of  song,  a  balmy  vernal  night. 

In  heaven  on  high  already  shone  the  moon ; 

The  earth  around  was  wrapt  in  splendor  bright. 

In  the  thick  wood,   among  the  hidden  boughs, 
Already  sang  the  mournful  nightingale. 

Her  sweet  song  streamed  abroad — I   sat  and  heard; 
With  dreamy  soul  I  listened  to  her  tale. 

—44— 


Around  me  trees  and  flowers  were  whispering, 

And  in  my  heart  old  memories  woke  that  night, 

Forgotten  in  the  day-time's  noise  and  strife; 

And  I  sat  dreaming  in  the  moon's  soft  light. 

Then  suddenly  the  sky's  dark  depths  were  oped, 

And  a  strong  voice  from  heaven  rolled  down  to  me; 

Like  unto  mighty  waters  was  the  sound: 

"If  God  hath  caused  His  face  to  shine  on  thee, 

"And  made  the  holy  spirit  rest  on  thee, 

And  thou   dost  play  the   harp  and   sing  aloud, 

Do  not  be  soft  and  pliant  like  a  rush! 

Bow  not  thy  head  before  the  rich  and  proud, 

"Who  trust  in  wealth,  to  whom  a  sigh  is  strange, 
Who  steel  their  heart,  that  ne'er  with  pity  bleeds. 

Be  not  a  rush!     Upon  them  pour  thy  wrath! 
Proclaim  aloud  the  foulness  of  their  deeds! 


"Reading,  perchance  their  hearts  may  softer  grow, 
And  from  the  worship  of  their  wealth  be  freed. 

They  may  become  the  helpers  of  the  poor, 
Who  pass  their  days  in  poverty  and  need. 


"Bard,  if  thou  seest  evil  reign  supreme 

And  strike  down  victims  right  and  left,  each  hour, 
Lift  a  dread  voice  on  high  and  shatter  it! 

Rescue  the  robbed  ones   from  the  robbers'  power, 

"Not  by  main  force,  but  mild  and  gentle  words. 

If  insolent  the  low  and  young  should  be, 
If  pleasant  Falsehood  in  the  place  of  Truth 

Strews  for  her  creatures  roses  fair  to  see 

—45— 


"At  every  step,  then,  poet,  waken  thou! 

On  the  despised  lie  bring  thy  tongue's  lash  down! 
If  thou  shouldst  see  a  nation  weak,  bent  low 

By  a  hard  yoke,  'neath  strong  oppression's  frown, 

'That  cries  for  help,  with  none  at  hand  to  aid, 
To  voice  its  wish,  and  its  just  cause  defend, 

Then,  poet,  let  thy  harpstrings  strongly  stir, 

And  throughout  all  the  world,  from  end  to  end, 

"Let  there  be  heard  a  voice  of  loud  complaint, 
Storming  like  thunder  ere  the  lightning  darts, 

Rushing  with  power,  and  breaking  out  in  flame ! 
Softened  perchance  will  be  the  stony  hearts; 

"They  for  the  nation  sore  oppressed  may  pour 
Comfort,  shed  on  it  drops  of  dew  of  light, 

That  make  the  body  strong  and  cheer  the  heart. 
Fear  not,  but  prophesy  aloud,  with  might! 

"Ere  from  thy  mother's  womb  thou  earnest  forth, 

I  to  thy  nation  consecrated  thee. 
Be  thou  to  it  a  true  and  faithful  son, 

And  with  thy  words  I  still  will  present  be!7' 


WHEREFORE? 

It  was  night.     The  stars  above  us 
Were  lit  up,  in  heaven  to  glow; 

In  the  streets,  like  shining  diamonds, 
Sparkled  bright  the  fluffy  snow. 

And  the  bushy  little  pine  tree, 

In  a  thick,  white  mantle  dight, 

Nodded  to  us  at  the  window 

With  its  top  all  snowy  white. 

-46- 


And  it  seemed  to  me  that  evening, 
It  complained,  the  lonely  tree, 

Of  its  lot,  so  dark  and  dreary, 
And  its  cruel  destiny. 

In  my  humble  chamber  sitting, 

I  was  lost  in  memory's  maze — 

Sad  and  bitter  recollections, 

Thoughts  of  long-departed  days. 

I  recalled  my  mother-country, 

Far,  forlorn,  and  wrapped  in  gloom, 
Where  my  early  life  I  wasted, 

Where  for  joy  I  dug  a  tomb; 

Where  I  loved,  with  young  heart  glowing, 
Where  I  was  beloved  the  while; 

Where  I  suffered,  suffered,  suffered — 
Suddenly,  with  gentle  smile, 

A  wee  girl  comes  up  and  whispers: 
"Please  remember,  uncle  dear, 

That  some  pretty  little  stories 

You  have  promised  I  should  hear." 

And  her  small  black  head  bent  toward  me, 

In  her  innocent  desire, 
And  her  eyes  like  stars  were  shining, 
Lighted  up  with  living  fire. 

"Say,   then,   charming  child,   what   stories 
Do  you  want,  that  you  have  heard? 

Of  the  Czarevitch,  young  Ivan? 
Of  the  wolf?     The  fairy  bird? 

—47— 


"Or  about  the  beauteous  daughter 
Of  the  king  beyond  the  seas?" 

"No,"  the  little  girl  made  answer, 
"No,  I  wish  for  none  of  these. 

"From  dear  grandma  I  have  heard  them, 
From  my  darling  nurse  as  well. 

From  a  lovely  book,  too,  mother 

Used  those  tales  to  read  and  tell. 


"  Tis  enough !     No  more  I  want  them.' 
And  she  turned  her  little  head, 

Pouting:      "Tell  me  about  people!" 
Thus  the  tiny  maiden  said. 

"But  I  know  not  what  to  tell  you." 
"Listen,  then,  my  uncle  dear; 

I  will  ask  and  you  shall  answer. 
This  is  what  I  want  to  hear: 


"Tell  me    why,  from  early  morning, 
Ere  the  dawn  begins  to  peep, 

My  papa  so  hard  must  labor — 

Why  he  slaves,  and  cannot  sleep?" 


"For  a  rich  man  he  is  working, 
To  get  money — this  is  why — 

That  for  you,  mamma,  your  brothers, 
Charming  presents  he  may  buy.'? 


"But  what  presents  can  he  give  us? 

Oftentimes  for  bread,  black  bread, 
Do  we  wait  with  eager  longing. 

Gray  already  is  his  head. 

-48- 


"Father  comes  home  bent  and  pallid, 

While  in  some  delightful  spot 
He  keeps  holiday,  that  rich  man, 

Living  high  and  toiling  not. 

"Uncle  dear,  oh,  tell  me  wherefore 

All  things  are  arranged  so  ill — 
Why  one  hand,  with  greedy  grasping, 

Seizes  everything  at  will? 

"Why  at  the  expense  of  others 

Do  the  rich  men  live?     Oh,  why?" 

And  her  eyes  with  tears  were  darkened, 
Like  the  sun  when  clouds  float  by. 

"In  the  world  there  are  bad  people; 

They  have  wrought  these  wrongs  so  deep. 
You  will  know  when  you  are  older; 

Now  be  off,  and  go  to  sleep!" 

And  she  went.     To  me  creation 

Deaf  and  dumb  all  seemed  to  lie; 

In  my  ears  one  cry  was  ringing: 

"Wherefore,  wherefore?     Why,  oh,  why?" 


TO  THE  WORKMEN. 

To  you,  my  sisters  and  my  brothers   poor, 

Scattered  throughout  the  world  these  many  years, 

Who  cold  and  hunger  patiently  endure, 

To  you  I  write  my  songs  with  blood  and  tears. 

I  never  shall  write  flatteries  to  the  rich, 

I  never  with  my  pen  shall  business  do. 

With  you,  ye  persecuted,  I  shall  stay, 

And  I  shall  laugh  with  you  and  weep  with  you. 

•—49— 


God's  little  world  is  glorious  and  rich ; 

The  May  has  come  to  fill  all  hearts  with  glee: 
The  sun  smiles  witchingly  upon  the  lake, 
That  is  as  clear  as  tears  of  children  be. 


The  birds  are  singing  sweet  a  song  divine, 

The  grapes  are  sending  out  ambrosial  scent. 

I  see  the  nightingale,  my  colleague,  seek 

A  pleasant  home  within  the  wood's  green  tent. 

The  forest  whispers  and  the  flowers  bloom  fair, 
The  sky  again  is  bright,  of  beauteous  hue. 

Man's  consolation,  May,  has  come:  but  ah! 
My  sisters  and  my  brothers^  not  to  you ! 

You  scarcely  see  the  glory  of  the  May, 

Your  minds  are  barred  from  all  these  lovely  scenes. 
Within  the  shops  till  late  at  night  you  sit, 

Bent  double,  ever  plying  the  machines. 

You  toil  and  toil;  they  take  from  you  your  strength, 
Your  life-blood,  your  best  years,  in  prison  passed. 

You  toil  and  toil,  with  no  repose,  no  rest, 
Till  in  your  coffins  you  are  laid  at  last. 

% 

But  come  it  must — so  I.  believe  and  hope — 

A  fresh,  new  time,  a  fresh,  new  kind  of  May. 

Men  will  no  more  be  animals  and  sheep, 

And  you,  too,  shall  rejoice  in  freedom's  day. 

My  sisters  and  my  brothers,  lose  not  heart ! 

A  time  shall  come  that  much  to  you  shall  bring, 
When  nothing  you  shall  hear  but  songs  of  joy, 

Of  grass  and  flowers,  of  liberty  and  spring! 

—So— 


THE  STREAMLET. 

In  the  cold  North,  between  the  stony  rocks, 

A  lonely  streamlet  sorrowfully  flowed. 
Foaming  the  spray  dashed,  and  the  rocks  looked  down, 

As  if  they  whispered,  "Whither  leads  thy  road? 

"Why  hast  thou  come  here  to  the  wilderness, 

A  tardy  guest?     In  this  lone  desert  gray 
Thy  waters  in  the  darkness  will  dry  up; 

Thou  canst  not  through  the  passes  break  thy  way." 

Clear,  pearly  spray  fell  on  the  rocks  like  tears. 

Gleaming  like  steel,  the  streamlet  wound  along 
Softly,  as  if  it  answered  to  the  rocks: 

"Oh,  ye  are  wrong!     Rocks,  ye  are  wholly  wrong! 

uYe  laugh  at  me  in  pride:     'We  rocks  are  strong; 

Thou,  streamlet,  weak.     We  ne'er  shall  be  o'erthrown 
Rocks,  laugh  not!     Granite  does  not  last  for  aye; 
Continual  dropping  hollows  out  the  stone." 


FORTH  FROM  THE  GHETTO. 

Break  forth  from  bounds  of  Ghetto  walls, 
And  burst  the  bands  of  the  yoke  that  galls ! 
Your  care-bent  backs  make  straight  again. 
Your  valor  raise  in  height  like  men, — 

To  height  of  hearts  now  worn  with  woe — 
The  woe  that  sups  on  drip  and  flow 
Of  warm  life  blood !     Let  each  one  cry : 
The    People's   Cause   to   serve    we'll   try!" 

— Si— 


No  longer  err  in  idle  dreams ; 
Nor  longer  be  the  scoffers'  themes! 
Nor  longer  in  the  nations  trust — 
Their  kindness  cold,  their  laws  unjust! 

To-day's  real  world  take  to  your  hearts  ; 
As  valiant  men  now  play  your  parts. 
No  more  your  backs  to  smiters  bend — 
They  spit  on  you  ?    Your  clench'd  fists  send 

At  once  in  force  and  manly  pride, 

For  sole  return.    No  moment  bide, 

But  instantly,  with  all  your  might, 

The  vaunting  mouth  of  the  braggart  smite. 

To  lying  lips  strike  back  the  shame 
Of  baseless  lies  meant  to  defame ! 
Forth  from  the  Ghetto  to  open  air- 
How  long  will  ye  sink  and  grovel  there? 


PLAYING  THE  GAME. 


A  number  of  urchins  were  romping  one  day, 

One  afternoon  out  in  the  street. 
Their  spirits  were  high  and  joyous  their  play. 

And  tireless  their  tongues  and  their  feet. 
Yet  they  wearied  at  length,  for  each  game  that  they  knew 

Lacked  freshness  and  so  made  them  tire. 
They  long'd  for  some  sport  that  was  pleasant  and  new, 

And  loudly  discussed  their  desire. 


•52— 


A  big  boy  at  length  on  the  head  hit  the  nail — 

"Let's  play  there's  a  fair  on  these  rocks ! 
I'll  play  Fm  a  farmer  with  oxen  for  sale, 

Arid  you,  Jim,  shall  play  you're  the  ox. 
I'll  lead  you  up  here  by  a  ring  through  the  nose — 

You'll  strain  and  you'll  pull  to  get  free; 
I'll  haul  and  I'll  swear,  and  I'll  lay  on  the  blows — 

We'll  find  it  no  end  of  a  spree!" 

Bill  soon  got  a  rope,  made  a  noose  at  one  end, 

And  Jim,  by  his  teeth,  gripp'd  the  noose. 
Bill  tugg'd  and  he  swore,  and  laid  on  with  a  stick — 

Jim's  shoulders  showed  many  a  bruise. 
For  mercy  he  cried,  but  held  fast  all  the  same, 

Though  he  felt  his  poor  jaws  nearly  broke. 
Bill  said:     "Never  mind,  for  you're  gaining  great  fame, 

And  you  know  it  is  only  a  joke!" 

A  bystander  cried  out:     "Let  go  of  the  noose, 

You're  not  bound  to  submit  to  such  knocks!" 
Jim  answered :     "You  know  that  I  dare  not  refuse, 

Or  some  other  will  soon  play  the  ox. 
I  might  let  go  the  rope  and  get  quit  of  the  blows; 

If  I  don't,  do  not  hold  me  to  blame; 
An  ox  must  expect  to  be  led  by  the  nose — 

As  for  bruises,  they're  part  of  the  game!" 

MORAL. 

The  moral  of  this,  when  to  politics  applied, 

All  observers  the  aptness  proclaim : 
The  General  Public,  it  can't  be  denied, 

Is  like  the  small  boy  in  thzt  game. 
(There  are  men  who  are  proud  of  the  hardest  of  knocks; 

They  really  rejoice  in  the  blows.) 
Oh,  the  General  Public  is  much  like  an  ox, 

And  it  loves  to  be  led  by  the  nose! 

—53— 


THE  PIG:     A  FABLE. 

Jn  the  animal  kingdom,  the  same  as  with  men, 

There  are  social  events.     It  befell  once  of  yore 
There  was  held  a  great  festival,  gallant  and  gay, 

Where  the  leader  and  host  was  a  corpulent  boar. 
He  invited  a  number  of  pigs  to  the  feast, 

And  he  placed  them  in  order  of  rank,  one  and  all. 
Then  suddenly,  lo!  a  fat  sow,  full  of  pride, 

Came  forward,  beginning  in  anger  to  bawl: 
"Oh,  he  has  insulted  us!     Trampled,  indeed, 

On  our  very  honor!"     (For  e'en  among  swine, 
You  see,  there  is  honor).     "Say,  who  let  him  in? 

Oh,  how  he  has  angered  us!     Well,  this  is  fine!" 
"Why,  whom  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  boar;  and  a  stream 

Of  words  poured  in  wrath  from  the  mouth  of  the  sow: 
"An  ox  has  intruded  among  us,  just  look!'' 

She  glared  at  him  swinishly:     "There  he  goes,  now! 
"He  mocks  us!     Down  with  him!     A  stranger  is  he; 

His  object  in  coming  must  be  to  destroy 
Our  fair  peace  and  quiet,  to  drain  the  damp  swamps 

In  which  all  we  pigs  find  such  genuine  joy ; 
"And  here,  where  there,  now  is  so  fragrant  a  stench, 

He  would  set  up  an  orchard,  fields — pastures,  in  fine, 
Where  cattle  will  graze,  and  their  herdsman,  the  fool, 

With  his  singing  will  silence  the  grunts  of  the  swine!" 
"Be  pacified,  madam !"  responded  the  boar. 

"I  feel  that  my  dignity  cannot  afford 
To  expel  even  such  an  intruder  unheard; 

I  shall  summon  at  once  an  advisory  board." 
The  advisory  board  soon  appeared  on  the  scene, 

And  then,  strictly  guarded,  the  ox  was  led  in ; — 
(Such  methods  the  boar  learned  from  Plehve,  no  doubt;)  — 

And,  waving  his  tail,  the  boar  cried,  to  begin: 
"Ox,  what  have  you  come  here  for?     Bring  me  a  stick!" 

The  accused  answered  loudly,  and  paying  no  heed 


—54- 


To  the  scared  court  of  swine,  "You  would  better  go  down 

To  the  river,  you  pigs,  for  your  snouts  greatly  need — " 
"How  now!"  in  a  rage  interrupted  the  boar. 

"Why,  tyrant,  be  angry?     It  was  not  for  strife 
Or  quarrel  I  came  here;  what  led  me  to  come 

Was  your  wretched  condition,  your  horrible  life. 
"I  want  to  clean  up  the  black  mud,  the  rank  filth, 

Which  for  so  many  years  have  surrounded  your  tribe; 
My  wish  is  to  lead  you  all  out  into  light, 

And  I  for  my  help  ask  no  payment,  no  bribe." 
"We  care  naught  for  your  gardens,  your  orchards,  your  fields!" 

Said  a  pig  who  was  on  the  advisory  board. 
"More  sweet  in  our  ears  is  the  croaking  of  frogs 

Than  songs  from  the  throats  of  the  nightingales  poured." 
"Let  us  kill  him,"  they  cried,  "the  fresh  fellow!  and  then 

In  peace  we  will  finish  our  meal  in  the  mud.?' 
"But  what  would  you  kill  me  for?"  bellowed  the  ox, 

"And  why  do  you  wish  to  shed  innocent  blood?" 
"You  are  dangerous  company  for  us!"  they  cried; 

And  with  rage  and  suspicion  their  small  eyes  grew  big; 
"You.  are  dangerous  to  us,"  they  grunted  and  squealed, 

"Because  you  don't  want  to  be  like  us — a  pig!" 


THE  LION  AND  THE  DOGS— A  FABLE. 

Once  on  a  time  the  dogs  felt  much  aggrieved 

Because  the  lion  was  so  strong  and  proud. 
In  consequence,  they  valiantly  resolved 

To  cast  dirt  on  him  till  he  should  be  cowed. 
"We  must  all  stand  together,  and  condemn 

The  haughty  fellow  strongly,  and  cry  'Shame!' 
Till  he  grows  small," — ('twas  thus  one  dog  called  out) 

"We  need  but  be  united  in  our  aim, 

—55— 


"And  bark  at  him  with  malice,  one  and  all, 

And  oft  to  him  our  sharpened  teeth  display." 
Thus  spoke  he,  and  immediately  strove 

To  show  what  he  could  do,  in  doggish  way. 
He  lifted  up  his  tail  with  insolence, 

And  at  the  lion  with  zeal  began  to  pour 
A  flood  of  filth;  and  to  his  aid  there  came 

Dogs  without  number,  ever  more  and  more. 
All  impudently  "barked,  and  more  than  all 

One  Lilliputian  dog  of  sable  hue. 
He  of  his  courage  vehemently  bragged, 

Painting  the  lion  as  black  all  through  and  through. 
Unto  the  lion  soon  there  came  reports 

About  those  dogs,  whose  barking  echoed  wide. 
"Oh,  I  could  silence  all  the  canine  race!" 

('Twas  thus  the  lion  quietly  replied). 
"But  since  of  all  the  forest  I  am  lord, 

It  would  not  be  a  fitting  thing  for  me 
To  make  a  noise  because  of  worthless  curs 

That  objects  only  of  my  scorn  can  be. 
"They  cannot  in  their  dirt  envelop  me; 

Far  from  me  is  their  dust — it  leaves  no  stain. 
They  are  but  dogs — they  have  to  bark  and  yelp. 

And  I?     The  self-same  lion  I  remain!" 


-56- 


DEBORAH 


AN   EPIC  POEM 
in  FOUR  PARTS 

II 


BY 


EZEKIEL   LEAVITT 


DEBORAH. 


An  Epic  Poem  in  Four  Parts. 

I. 

DEBORAH  : 

The  light  of  Friday  eve  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  with  it  will  my  light  of  life  expire. 
When  the  sun  hides  himself  behind  the  hills 
And  finishes  once  more  his  daily  course, 
Edging  the  rim  of  heaven's  broad  expanse 
With  a  deep  tinge  of  ruby-purple  hue, 
Then,  with  the  latest  beams  of  this  day's  sun, 
I  shall  depart,  and  leave  the  world  behind. 
Weep,  weep,  my  heart,  bidding  farewell  to  earth ! 
To  a  far  land,  a  melancholy  land, 
I  with  a  sinful  thought  shall  pass  away. 
But  I  perchance  in  heaven  shall  pardon  find. 
The  Lord  omniscient  reads  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  will  salvation  grant.     Creator!     Lord! 
I  with  a  prayer  invoke  Thee ;  for  the  sake 
Of  two  much-loving  souls  Thy  world  I  leave. 
Thus  to  pronounce  the  stern  decree  of  fate 
Do  I  resolve.     Why  should  I  linger  still  ? 
Doubt  evermore  unto  misfortune  leads. 
What  shall  I  do?    And  what  shall  I  decide? 
Oh,  shall  I  bring  myself  a  sacrifice 
To  my  sad  father,  shatter  my  young  dreams, 
And  live  on  lonely  with  a  broken  heart, 
Awaiting,  with  a  sore-afflicted  soul, 
Another  love,  and  give  myself  to  it 
Without  a  struggle,  unresisting,  meek? 
But  no!  vain  hope,  with  such  a  frightful  past 
Calm  comfort  in  the  future  to  expect! 
E'en  so  a  shrub,  once  broken  by  the  storm, 


Waits  not  for  a  revival  in  the  spring ; 
When  blows  the  lightest  zephyr,  it  will  fall. 
When  in  the  earth  its  roots  are  all  decayed, 
No  leaves  will  bud  upon  the  withered  stump. 
When  fate  the  heart  has  broken,  there  can  be 
No  further  expectation  in  the  soul. 

0  suffering  child,  O  child  of  misery ! 
No  future  consolation  I  expect. 
Shall  I  then  sacrifice  myself,  or  shall 
Stern  duty  yield  to  love,  and  shall  I  scorn 
The  everlasting  laws,  God's  covenants 
Immortal?     With  the  passion  of  my  heart 
My  father,  my  poor  father,  shall  I  slay? 
And  shall  I  say  I  will  become  his  wife — 
I,  Deborah,  the  daughter  of  a  Jew  ? 

And  loneliness  and  hunger,  cold  and  care, 
Anxieties  about  our  daily  bread, 

1  shall  forget  in  happiness  with  him, 

And  I  shall  live  and  bloom  again !     What  then  ? 

Heaven  will  not  condemn  me.     God  is  love ; 

And  I  love  him,  my  friend,  more  ardently 

Than  aught  on  earth,  and  with  him  I  will  love 

Forever  holy  truth  and  liberty. 

Freedom  of  thought  he  will  instill,  and  teach 

Unto  my  heart,  which  is  oppressed  with  pain 

From  grievous  poortith  in  a  wretched  hut. 

Shall  it  be  so,  then?    And  my  father's  tears! 

O  God  in  heaven !  for  my  father's  sake 

A  bloody  sacrifice  I  needs  must  bring, 

A  sacrifice  he  will  not  comprehend. 

Then  let  it  be  so !     I  will  trust  my  heart  ; 

It  will  point  out  the  way  to  me,  and  teach 

My  soul  how  to  preserve  my  father's  love. 

And  how  to  be  to  him  until  the  end 

A  consolation  in  his  bitter  lot. 

But  who  is  there  ?    You,  my  own  father  dear  ? 


— 60- 


FATHER  : 

Good  day  to  you,  my  daughter  Deborah ! 
Collect  yourself,  my  child ;  you  look  unwell. 
You  have  allowed  a  sad  and  mournful  thought 
Upon  your  mother  to  make  dark  your  face. 

DEBORAH  : 

Love,  like  the  daylight,  father,  darkens  not. 

FATHER,  : 

Child !  yet  the  sun,  beneath  whose  glowing  beams 
The  roses  blossom  forth  so  splendidly, — 
That  sun  with  sultry  rays  breeds  noxious  worms 
Within  the  wretched  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
When  filth  with  greedy  touch  assails  their  huts. 

DEBORAH  : 

A  horrible  example !    Though  my  friend 
A  Gentile  be,  my  love  for  him  is  pure. 

FATHER  : 

My  child,  I  see  you  are  not  well  today. 
I  will  withdraw,  and  later,  dear,  we'll  talk. 

DEBORAH  : 

Oh,  no!  I  pray,  go  not!     Remain  with  me. 
Today  or  later,  'twill  be  all  the  same. 
The  weakness  of  my  heart  has  but  one  source — 
Irresolution,  strife  of  mind  and  heart. 

FATHER  : 

But  your  firm  mind  had  won  the  victory, 
And  triumphing  you  came  to  me  with  pride? 

DEBORAH  : 

Ah,  no,  my  mind  has  not  yet  won !     But  pray, 
My  own 

FATHER  : 

Be  silent  ?     Oh,  not  so,  my  child ! 
Like  to  a  slave  most  abject,  I  entreat; 

-61— 


Like  to  a  haughty  sovereign,  I  command — 
Forget  him !     Child,  you  know  me ;  honestly 
In  the  poor  hovel  of  a  laborer 
The  duties  of  a  Jew  I  have  performed. 

DEBORAH  : 

I  know  it  all.     You,  my  own  father  dear, 
I  see  enduring  misery  and  grief ; 
In  deep  affliction  you  drag  out  your  days, 
A  victim  of  stern  fate. 

FATHER  : 

O  child,  believe 
My  words — 

DEBORAH  : 

Are  my  death  sentence,  well  I  know. 

FATHER  : 

O  dearest  Deborah,  you  will  not  die. 

You  in  the  name  of  God  will  live,  my  child, 

And  in  the  name  of  sacred  truth.     For  you 

There  is  a  way — a  thorny  way;  but  bow 

Your  young  head  to  your  fate,  and  in  your  heart 

Be  always  pure !     Hold  fast  a  sacred  truth — 

That  beauty  is  a  gift  most  perilous 

In  our  time:    for  the  men  of  this  our  day, 

Preachers  of  boastful  pride  and  haughtiness, 

Defame  the  name  of  man,  and  recklessly 

All  innocent  illusions  they  destroy. 

Nor  love  nor  pity  in  their  hearts  you'll  find, 

When  you,  forgetful  of  your  blood  and  race, 

To  a  new  family  commit  yourself. 

But,  if  my  gray  head  must  be  whelmed  with  shame, 

Your  mother  will  complain  to  God  that  I 

A  father's  duty  have  but  ill  'performed ; 

Heaven's  thunder  on  this  grieved  gray  head  will  fall- 

A  head  that  with  gray  hair  before  its  time 

Was  covered,  through  anxiety — a  head 

—62- 


Whose  brain  has  been  worn  out  with  countless  woes. 

0  daughter  mine,  I  beg !     Behold,  I  weep ! 
These  bitter  tears,  my  daughter,  from  your  heart 
Your  strong  delusion  ought  to  wash  away. 

1  bend  before, you,  spite  of  nature's  laws — 
A  helpless  father,  bowed  before  his  child ; 
And  you  can  crush  me,  or  can  cure  my  grief. 


DEBORAH  : 


Father,  weep  not !     More  painful  are  your  tears 

To  me  than  all  my  pain.     And  here  I  swear, 

Father,  by  yon  clear  heaven,  and  by  earth, 

And  by  the  sun,  which  haply  shines  for  me 

For  the  last  time,  and  by  the  memory 

Of  my  beloved  mother  who  is  dead, 

Whose  life  in  grief  and  sorrow  passed  away, 

Without  bright  dreams,  without  calm,  tranquil  days- 

I  swear,  my  own  dear  father,  that  to  cease 

To  love  my  friend  is  not  within  my  power ; 

E'en  to  forget  him  is  beyond  my  strength. 

But  yet  his  wife  I  will  not  be.     I  am 

Your  daughter — daughter,  too,  of  Israel ; 

I  love  you,  and  our  Moses  I  revere; 

I  love  my  race ;  a  Jewess  I  will  die. 


FATHER  : 


The  heart's  wound  will  be  healed  in  course  of  time, 
And  joy  again  find  place  within  your  soul. 
Farewell!     May  peace  be  with  you,  Deborah! 


DEBORAH  : 


Be  hushed  and  still,  vain  hopes !     Do  not  rejoice 
The  old  man's  heart,  lest  with  dread  suddenness 
It  should  be  smitten  soon !     And  I  ?     I  go 
For  the  last  time  to  meet  my  dearest  friend. 

-63- 


II. 


YOUNG  MAN: 


Oh,  what  a  night !    How  brightly  gleam  the  stars 

Far  in  the  azure  heavens!     All  nature  through, 

Quiet  as  in  a  cemetery  reigns, 

And  the  whole  world  is  wrapped  in  calm  repose. 

The  forest's  witching  sounds  are  hushed  and  still, 

The  birds  are  silent,  sleeping  free  from  care ; 

The  aged  oak-tree  seems  to  slumber,  too. 

All  things  around  are  quiet.     Dreams  of  bliss, 

Filling  the  heart,  are  whispering  sweet  and  low, 

"Seize  on  the  moments  brief  of  happiness, 

And  wait  with  patience  here  for  Deborah." 

Love  has  no  wisdom,  but  has  mighty  power ; 

It  will  o'ercome  the  maiden's  bashfulness, 

And  it  will  bring  fair  Deborah  to  me. 

And  I  will  tell  her  that  without  avail 

She  said  to  me — it  was  but  yesterday — 

"First  love  alone  is  pure  and  undefiled!" 

Those  words  pierced  through  me  like  a  poisoned  sting. 

Useless  are  reasons ;  I  have  fallen  in  love ; 

Love,  my  beloved  friend,  is  always  love, 

And  of  my  other  passions  of  past  days 

The  memories  are  dim  within  my  heart. 

Now  with  the  thought  of  you  alone  I  live, 

And  you  alone,  O  Deborah,  I  love ! 

I  love  with  ardor,  madly,  like  a  youth ; 

Like  a  dear  gift,  I  for  our  meeting  look. 

When  by  your  side,  dear  friend,  I  can  forget 

Life's  bitterness ;  near  you  I  live  again, 

And  all  my  heart  once  more  is  filled  with  cheer. 

When  I  am  by  your  side,  I  can  believe 

That  happiness  is  possible  on  earth, 

Where  there  is  little  joy,  but  countless  griefs ! 

Like  a  young  bird,  my  dear,  at  times  you  sing, 

-64- 


Blithe,  free  from  care  or  trouble,  and  you  act 
Merrily  and  provokingly ;  and  then 
I'm  ready  to  forget  that  happiness 
Is  but  a  vision  and  a  swift  mirage. 
Tis  like  a  youthful  maiden;  with  a  smile 
She  glances  at  us  once,  then  vanishes, 
And  afterward  no  trace  of  her  is  left. 
But,  Deborah,  when  you  are  mute,  and  when 
A  wave  of  restless  yearning  dims  your  face, 
And  when  the  hesitation  of  your  heart 
Subdues  your  movements'  graceful  nimbleness, 
And,  like  the  dew  on  crimson  roses  shed, 
What  time  the  morning  sun's  majestic  beam 
Enfolds  them  in  the  glorious  light  of  day, 
The  crystal  teardrops  glisten  in  your  eyes, 
And,  moving  slowly  downward  more  and  moic, 
Begin  to  march  across  your  beauteous  cheeks — 
Then  in  my  eyes  you  truly  are  divine, 
Like  a  celestial  dweller  in  the  heavens. 
And  where?     Where?     In  a  miserable  hut, 
Beside  a  sad  old  man,  who  told  me  once: 
"The  prudent  mind  within  a  woman's  heart, 
This  is  the  guide  of  piety ;  to  be 
Before  her  marriage  an  obedient  child, 
After,  a  virtuous  and  honest  wife, 
When  over  the  young  girl's  weak  heart  his  power 
Her  father  to  her  husband  shall  resign." 
But  hist!     I  hear  the  rustling  of  a  robe. 
Oh,  is  it  she,  or  does  my  heart  mistake? 

DEBORAH  : 

Here,  here  am  I,  my  well-beloved  friend ! 

YOUNG  MAN: 

O  Deborah,  I  am  not  a  mere  friend ! 

-65- 


DEBORAH  : 

Vain  is  discussion;    only  a  brief  time 
Is  left  to  argue.     For  a  moment's  space 
I  have  come  here,  to  give  you  my  farewell. 
Forget  me,  if  forgetfulness  your  heart 
Appals  not.     I — I  will  not  be  your  wife! 

YOUNG  MAN : 

Can  it  be  possible  you  love  me  not  ? 

DEBORAH  : 

I  love  you!     Of  my  life  my  love  is  part; 

Together  with  my  heart  that  love  has  grown, 

And  I  shall  bear  it  with  me  to  the  grave, 

A  precious  and  inestimable  gift. 

What  to  the  soul  is  death?     Why  should  we  fear? 

I  shall  die  calmly  and  serenely  now. 

Who  has  felt  love  is  not  afraid  of  death — 

Not  death  itself.     My  friend,  believe  my  words. 

Oh,  what  is  death  to  us  ?     A  moment's  space, 

And  he  who  has  been  happy,  who  has  loved, 

Who  has  survived  fond  love's  emotion  deep — 

Though  he  has  lived  a  brief  span,  has  lived  long. 

YOUNG  MAN : 

Your  fear  is  then  because  you  doubt  my  love? 

DEBORAH  : 

Oh,  no,  not  so!     I  cannot  disbelieve 
Your  words,  as  I  to  love  you  cannot  cease. 
So  the  bright  sun  in  heaven  can  give  no  warmth 
When  he  doth  cease  to  shine. 

YOUNG  MAN : 

You  love  me  not, 

And  your  intention  is  to  ruin  me 

To  please  your  father  and  your  native  Jand. 

-66- 


DEBORAH  : 

Nay,  native  land  and  mother  country  dear, 

Those  sounds  so  sweet  and  precious  to  the  heart, 

Those  words  are  not  for  me ;  you  know  it  well. 

A  stranger  here  in  a  strange  land  am  I. 

My  nation,  hard  and  thorny  is  thy  road ; 

Around  thee  is  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Thy  heart  was  pained,  thy  breast  was  rent  with  grief, 

Yet  forward  didst  thou  go.     Within  thee  dwelt 

Thy  holy  faith,  the  great  Creator's  gift, 

And  like  a  lighthouse  it  hath  ever  shone 

And  lighted  up  thy  dark  and  gloomy  way. 

0  my  own  nation,  thou  art  dear  to  me ! 

1  love  thee  for  thy  sufferings  long  and  great, 
And  for  the  hatred  of  thine  enemies, 

And  for  thy  thirst  for  knowledge  and  for  truth. 

I  love  thy  heroes,  valiant  men  of  old. 

Not  for  my  life,  nor  my  friend's  happiness, 

My  love  for  my  own  nation  will  I  yield. 

Still  faithful  to  my  people's  memory, 

Let  me  bear  suffering  and  loneliness! 

YOUNG  MAN  : 

Alas,  alas!     I  see  you  love  me  not. 

DEBORAH  : 

So  long  as  yonder  stars  above  us  shine, 
Until  the  moon  and  sun  shall  fall  from  heaven 
Into  destruction's  deep  abyss,  my  friend, 
Still  shall  I  love  you.     I  will  never  wed. 

YOUNG  MAN  : 

But,  say,  what  is  your  motive  in  all  this  ? 
You  are  a  Jewess ;  is  not  that  the  cause  ? 

DEBORAH  : 

That  I'm  a  Jewess,  is  but  little  harm ; 
You  are  a  Gentile;  there  the  trouble  lies. 
Though  I  perchance  could  live  in  harmony 

-67- 


With  you,  you  could  not  comprehend  me,  dear, 

Or,  haply,  would  not  care.     Then  live,  my  friend; 

Forget  the  bitterness  that  life  has  brought 

Unto  your  lips ;  you  still  are  young  enough 

To  sweeten  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  heart. 

I  think  that  happiness  you  will  not  find, 

But  consolation  will  be  yours,  among 

Friends  of  tempestuous  youth,  where  life  flows  on 

Rushing  and  boiling,  like  a  foaming  spring, 

And  brings  forgetfulness  of  grief  and  care. 

You  by  its  impulse  will  be  borne  away, 

O  my  unhappy  and  indocile  friend ! 

And  then  you  will  forgive  me  that  for  love 

And  joy  I  pay  you  back  with  bitterness. 

Live,  live,  and,  like  a  rock  beneath  the  storm, 

Stay  quiet ;  for  the  storm  will  pass  away, 

And  dawn  again  with  its  bright  streak  illume 

Your  path  of  life,  your  hard  and  thorny  path, 

And  by  degrees  your  grief  will  fade  away. 

My  hour  has  come,  my  life  will  quickly  end, 

And  you  will  soon  recover  and  forget. 

And  over  my  forgotten  grave,  belike, 

You  with  some  other  maid  will  shed  a  tear, 

And  you  will  say  that  day,  "Oh,  how  she  loved 

And  how  she  struggled !     The  firm  mind  o'ercame 

And  vanquished  passion's  impulse." 

YOUNG  MAN : 

You  will  live; 

Or  else  with  you — 

DEBORAH  : 

You,  too,  will  die?     O  friend, 

Wherefore?     Are  not  my  sufferings  great  enough, 

That  I  must  bear  away  with  me  besides 

The  sting  of  conscience  ? 

—68— 


YOUNG  MAN : 

But  you,  Deborah, 
You  are  unhappy ! 

DEBORAH  : 

In  my  love  I  am. 

But  with  my  father's  curse  I  will  not  buy 

My  earthly  happiness. 

YOUNG  MAN: 

Your  father?     Ah, 

Again  he  blocks  my  way !     You  soon  shall  see, 

Dear,  how  I  will  remove  him  from  my  path! 

DEBORAH  : 

I  pray  you,  let  my  father  rest  in  peace. 
One  constant  sorrow  all  his  life  has  been ; 
No  happy  moment,  no  bright  days,  no  joys 
His  heart  has  known;  his  struggle  desperate 
Has  had  for  consolation  me  alone ; 
And  how  can  I  forget  it,  and  with  grief 
Poison  his  life,  and  all  his  days  to  come? 
Forgive  me,  and  forget  me.     Fare  you  well ! 


III. 


And,  weeping  bitterly,  young  Deborah 
Glided  away.     She  whispered  to  herself : 
"O  mortal  child,  why  woo  you  happiness? 
Why  did  you  fall  in  love  with  yonder  youth? 
Love,  love,  what  art  thou  ?     Oh,  thbu  art  a  spark, 
A  ray  of  light  amid  the  gloom  of  night, 
And  thou  art  an  awakening  in  the  heart 
Weary  with  sorrow;  thou  art  light  and  life, 
But  thou  art  also  torment  as  of  hell ! 
Sometimes  thou  servest  in  a  guiltless  soul 
As  the  beginning  of  an  artful  lie; 
And  I — my  love  is  guilty.     When  the  talk 

-69- 


Of  the  gay  crowd  grows  less,  my  hapless  sire, 

After  day's  labors  you  will  fall  asleep, 

As  innocent  as  any  babe;  and  then, 

My  own,  I  too  shall  sleep ;  but  you  will  wake, 

And  in  the  morning  your  poor  hut  will  be 

Filled  with  discussions,  and  a  mournful  noise 

Will  sound  within  its  miserable  walls. 

No  wedding  feast,  no  joyous  festive  meal 

Am  I  preparing  for  you,  O  my  own! 

You,  who  have  laid  your  wife  within  the  mold, 

Will  also  bear  your  daughter  to  her  grave. 

And,  even  as  in  life  I  stood  alone 

Among  the  crowds,  so  in  the  graveyard  still 

Shall  I  be  far  from  those  who  rest  in  peace 

In  Mother  Earth's  calm  breast.     Woe,  Deborah! 

Naught  but  a  lonely  sepulchre  will  then 

Remain  as  a  memorial  of  you! 

Hiding  his  eyes  for  shame  my  sire  will  walk, 

That  none  may  look  with  mocking  raillery 

On  the  sick,  broken  father,  when  he  goes 

On  his  loved  daughter's  grave  to  shed  salt  tears. 

Heaven  will  not  dare  condemn  me,  for  I  die 

Because  I  have  not  courage  to  live  on. 

My  friend  is  always  with  me,  and  his  words 

Are  like  my  doom's  decision.     Him  I  love, 

In  him  have  faith,  and  trust  him  to  my  grave. 

Oh,  my  heart  aches,  my  death  is  drawing  nigh! 

The  poison  burns  me.     Quick,  malignant  draught, 

That  I  made  haste  to  drink!     Oh,  quickly  smite, 

Wreck  and  destroy!     Be  speedy,  oh,  be  swift, 

Lest  vain  regret  awaken  in  my  heart ! 

Or  thou  that  hast  beyond  recall  or  hope 

Poisoned  my  young  life  in  a  moment's  space, 

Canst  thou  not  also  slay  my  fearless  mind 

In  my  weak  brain  ?     Forgive  me,  O  my  sire ! 

Right  dearly  by  your  daughter  were  you  loved, 

And  deep  in  my  afflicted  heart  I  feel 

— 70 — 


That  you  would  rather  mourn  for  me  as  dead 
Than,  robbed  of  honor  by  my  fault,  my  sin, 
To  meet  your  own  and  only  child  with  shame. 
My  end  is  come.     Adieu,  my  father  dear ! 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  best-beloved  friend!" 


IV. 


Within  a  lonely,  wretched  hut,  the  board 

Was  ready  spread,  and  at  the  table's  end 

Two  white  loaves  'neath  a  figured  coverlet 

Whiter  than  snow — the  Sabbath's  needful  things. 

A  beaker  filled  with  wine  stood  also  there. 

Yellow  with  age,  three  plates,  one  cracked,  two  whole, 

A  knife  without  a  handle,  and  two  forks, 

Two  copper  spoons — no  more  the  table  bore. 

Yet  on  the  board  a  salt-cellar  was  set, 

And  near  it,  in  their  rusty  candlesticks, 

Two  tallow  candles,  glimmering  with  dim  light, 

Soon  to  go  out,  lit  up  the  table  poor, 

And  the  sad  visage  of  an  aged  man. 

So  light  the  mountain  peaks  the  sunset  rays 

At  eve,  with  parting  fire  from  heaven's  height. 

The  old  man  sat,  his  gray  head  hanging  down, 

And  often,  very  often,  there  was  heard 

A  deep  sigh,  breathed  from  out  his  broken  heart. 

Those  sighs  disturbed  the  stillness  reigning  there 

As  thunder  the  dumb  silence  of  the  fields 

When  thunder  sounds  before  the  break  of  day. 

The  old  man's  lips,  with  trembling,  breathed  a  name. 

Whom  does  he  call  on,  the  forsaken  one, 

Within  his  hovel  poor  and  mean?     Who  knows? 

As  a  fire-crested  wave  boils  up  in  us, — 

The  feelings  of  .hot  youth — and  heedlessly 

We  drop,  as  drops  a  twig  its  unripe  fruit, 

Our  youthful  dreams,  and  our  most  loved  ideals — 

Not  so  art  thou,  heart  of  the  aged  man ! 

—71— 


Grown  wise  with  years,  thou  knowest  how  to  hide 
Within  thine  innermost  recesses,  all 
Thy  thoughts  and  wishes ;  to  unriddle  them 
It  would  be  vain  for  anyone  to  seek. 
Into  deep  meditation  the  old  man 
Sank,  and  in  anguish  gazed  upon  the  fire : 
"O  sacred  Sabbath  fire,  a  short  while  since, 
You  lit  up  all  the  gloom  of  my  sad  soul 
When,  Friday  eve,  before  the  evening  prayer, 
My  Deborah  enkindled  your  bright  flame. 
Sweetly  that  flame  foretold  the  near  approach 
Of  the  desired  hour,  when  the  wearied  breast, 
Forgetful  of  its  grief,  would  freely  breathe. 

0  sacred  fire !     Now  with  your  light,  alas ! 
You  to  my  mind  recall  those  lights  that  stood 
Beside  my  well-beloved  daughter's  corpse. 

My  child,  my  child,  why  did  earth  swallow  you 
Ere  you  had  fully  blossomed  into  flower? 
Why  did  you  stay  with  me  so  brief  a  space? 
But  great  and  wise  is  God,  and  just  His  law. 
Not  in  this  world  of  foul  impurity, 
Where  Falsehood  and  Corruption  have  upreared 
Luxurious  temples  for  themselves — not  here, 
Not  in  this  world,  where  keen  and  piercing  thorns 
Keep  from  the  hands  of  men  the  short-lived  rose — 
But  in  the  glorious  and  eternal  heaven, 
There,  my  own  daughter,  thou  shalt  live !     Amid 
The  chorus  of  the  shining  evening  stars, 
With  the  assembly  of  the  Cherubim, 
There  shalt  thou  sing  with  joy,  my  child,  my  child! 
Not  here,  where  men  their  brethren  smite  and  slay, 
And  tread  the  holiest  things  beneath  their  feet, 
Should  those  sweet  songs  of  paradise  be  heard." 
The  old  man's  eyes  grew  bright  and  full  of  light 
"The  Sabbath  is  a  holy  day,  God's  day ; 

1  will  not  dampen  it  with  tears  of  mine !" 
The  old  man  shouts  aloud  the  Sabbath  hymn : 

—72— 


"Oh,  come,  let  us  exult  before  the  Lord !" 
And  his  pure  tones  flow  like  a  stream  in  spring, 
Clear,  full  of  glory,  from  beneath  the  snow. 
The  old  man's  hymns  monotonously  flow 
Within  his  lonely,  miserable  hut, 
Where  his  deep  sighs  and  sobs  had  given  life 
Only  to  griefs;  where  all  things  dying  seem. 
But  soon  the  old  man's  hymns  were  heard  no  more. 
Weeping  and  groaning  drowned  them;  so  the  roar 
Raised  by  a  wounded  tiger  in  the  wood 
May  sometimes  drown  the  faint  and  gentle  moan 
Made  by  a  deer,  just  as  it  breathes  its  last. 

O'er  the  young  girl's  cold  corpse  her  lover  wept, 
And  he  brought  to  her  there,  for  the  last  time, 
His  last  sad  gift — his  salt  and  bitter  tears. 


INDEX 


AN  APPRECIATION  OF  LEAVITT By  PROF.  G.  DEUTSCH 

A  FOREWORD  BY  THE  TRANSLATOR..ALICE  STONE  BLACKWELL 

The  Poet  to  the  Public From  the  Yiddish 

A  Lion's  Spirit " 

My  Creed " 

They  Tell  Me " 

To  the  Poet " 

The  Poet " 

Be  Silent,  Poet " 

My  Song  is  Poisoned  " 

Oh,  If " 

My  Poor  Jew " 

Hebrew  Cradle  Song " 

My  Loss " 

Together ' ' 

I  Love  Thee " 

Romance ' ' 

To  a  Friend .     " 

What  Shall  I  Sing? 


PAGE 

)EUTSCH 

i 

VCKWELL 

3 

Yiddish 

5 

Hebrew 

6 

Russian 

6 

Hebrew 

7 

Russian 

8 

Yiddish 

8 

Russian 

9 

Hebrew 

10 

Russian 

ii 

Yiddish 

13 

Russian 

13 

Russian 

15 

Yiddish 

15 

Russian 

17 

Yiddish 

17 

Russian 

18 

Hebrew 

19 

—75— 


PAGE 

Elegy From  the  Yiddish  21 

A  Lamentation "  "  Yiddish  22 

On  Russia's  Frontier "  "  Hebrew  24 

My  Curse "  "  Hebrew  25 

To  the  Executioner "  "  Russian  28 

Time "  "  Russian  29 

A  Prayer "  "  Russian  29 

My  Tombstone "  "  Yiddish  30 

To  My  Nation "  "  Yiddish  31 

After  the  Basle  Congress "  "  Russian  34 

Songs  of  Zion "  "  Hebrew  37 

A  Zionist  Marseillaise "  "  Yiddish  39 

The  Jewish  Marseillaise "  "  Yiddish  39 

The   Prophet •'  "  Hebrew  40 

To  the  False  Prophets "  "  Hebrew  43 

The  Voice  of  God "  "  Hebrew  44 

Wherefore? "  "  Russian  46 

To  the  Workmen "  "  Yiddish  49 

The  Streamlet "  "  Russian  51 

Forth  From  the  Ghetto "  "  Hebrew  51 

Playing  the  Game "  "  Russian  52 

The  Pig "  '*  Russian  54 

The  Lion  and  the  Dogs "  "  Yiddish  55 

DEBORAH...  "  "  Russian  57 


NOTE— The  poems  "Playing  the  Game"  and  "Forth  From  the  Ghetto"  are 
translated  by  Jacob  Goldstein;  the  poem,  Songs  of  Zion"  by  Miss  Rebecca 
A.  Altman;  the  remainder  are  all  translated  by  Miss  Alice  Stone  Blackwell. 


YC  001  16" 


483023 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


